Realize
by Sara's Girl
Summary: A series of oneshots. Nick/Greg **slash** various genres, POV will vary. One or both realize feelings about the other.
1. It Must Be Love

**Real/ize** part 1 - _It Must be Love_ - by Sara's Girl

AN - Part 1 in a series of themed one-shots, I hope. Reviews are much, much appreciated.

I don't own Nick or Greg, or anyone at CSI, other than Karis, who belongs to me...

I can't decide if I love Karis or hate her…I was channelling John C McGinley a little when I was writing her, that may or may not be obvious ;)

Something was missing. Nick knew that something was missing, he could feel it. He looked around the break room as he poured his coffee, as though he might find it pinned against the wall or carelessly dropped under the table. He did it though, knowing that the missing was not a physical object. It was this…feeling, this odd sensation low down in his belly that he could not resolve. A gap, and a twinge.

Ever since he had started working swing shift, he couldn't shake it. It felt seriously weird working during daylight hours, but that wasn't it. Having Catherine as his boss; that would take some getting used to, but he knew he would in time. That wasn't it either.

Nick leaned against the table and sipped his coffee, pulling a face immediately. This, too, was wrong. Because no one made coffee like Greg did. Something about that thought pulled at Nick and he frowned against it, shifting his weight slightly and lowering the cup. It was a loss, sure, but even he didn't like coffee that much. Not like Greg.

It felt quiet around the lab without him.

Nick shook his head and gulped down the rest of the coffee with some effort. He needed the caffeine, regardless of the taste. His sleeping pattern had not yet adjusted to the shift change. He supposed he missed them all, really. He would never say so, but it was true.

He missed Sara's seriousness, her unwavering focus on a case that bordered on the obsessive, the way she could – with the right words and a well-timed joke – be shaken out of it and persuaded to smile. Nick enjoyed making her smile because it was a challenge, and because the result was so rewarding. It could light up a whole room.

He missed Grissom too, even though missing Grissom was a strange idea to get his head around. The man was so detached, so dispassionate, not like Nick at all. Nick wondered if Grissom had ever missed anyone. Thought he probably did care, in his own way, and there was no denying what the older man had taught him over the years. He even – and he never thought he would say this – even missed the man's endless quoting of famous literature. For every crime scene, a quote, from Shakespeare or Hemingway or Poe.

And Greg. Nick supposed he missed Greg, too. The place seemed somewhat lacklustre without him. Suddenly feeling sick, Nick turned and stared accusingly at the coffee pot, which only steamed gently in response. He placed his cup in the sink and stalked out of the room.

He had results to collect, but as he moved through the corridors, he found himself struggling to remember what they were, or where he needed to get them from. His feet seemed to be carrying him along at cross purposes to his own will, along a well-worn path. He was standing outside the door with one hand on the glass before his mind started to flicker into action again.

That was it. He needed to know if the victim had drugs in her system. He needed to go to Tox. And yet. Here he was, standing outside the DNA lab. Nick frowned again and rubbed the back of his neck distractedly. He stared through the glass dumbly, dark eyes unexpectedly meeting the sharp green ones of the swing shift tech. She lifted an eyebrow inquiringly. The feeling of something being missing was intensified ten times over just by standing here. Not that it made any sense.

Telling himself firmly that he did not need any DNA results, Nick instructed his feet to move; and move in the direction of the Tox lab. His body was clearly not in the mood for instruction, however, as all of five seconds later he found himself standing inside DNA, facing the swing tech over the glass counter and realizing with mounting horror that he had nothing useful or constructive to offer in the way of conversation.

The dark-haired tech regarded him impassively for a moment or two, apparently unperturbed, before picking up her pipette and resuming her work. Nick watched her, for want of anything better to do while he waited and hoped for normal service to resume in his head. Observed the way her curly black hair escaped messily from the clasp she had tried to contain it in. Listened to the soft scratch of stiff lab coat fabric as she moved. Realized he did not even know her name.

"What can I do for you, Nick Stokes?" She asked eventually, not looking up from her work. He was surprised, and guilt-ridden that still he could not recall her name but she knew his.

"You know my name." Stating the obvious. Good start, Nick.

She raised her eyebrows but still she did not look up.

"Yes, well, you CSIs will walk around with it stitched on your clothes. Just like your mom used to do with your school stuff, huh? I notice things."

Nick frowned, yet again, looking down stupidly at his black t-shirt.

"I know you're not wearing it right now," she snarked. "But I do have something we lab rats like to call a brain. Jeez, I thought you had to be smart to be a CSI."

Nick took an instinctive step backwards at her hostile tone and raised his hands in a placating gesture.

"Greg would never speak to me like that," he muttered darkly, more to himself than anyone else.

Greg always had a smile for him. Greg would never imply he was stupid, even in jest.

To Nick's surprise, his half-whispered remark made the cranky tech look up and smile. It was a smug, knowing smile, and her green eyes glittered.

"Sanders? Well no…of course he wouldn't," she murmured.

Placed the last test-tube back in the holder. Turned to her computer keyboard, fingers sliding deftly and throwing a soft tap-tap-tapping into the silence.

Nick just stared at her, completely baffled by her remark, and the smirk with which it was delivered. What the hell did she mean by that? After a minute's silence, though, the tech's smile faded and she looked exasperated once more.

"Seriously, dude, is there something I can help you with? Because I got stuff to do, you know?" She gestured toward a pile of evidence bags with a flick of a gloved hand.

Nick shook himself, hoping to kickstart his dazed brain, and stepped backwards toward the door.

"Ah, no, not really," he admitted, still backing up slowly. "Sorry to have…ah…disturbed you. I'm looking for something. I think I'll just – "

He pointed vaguely down the corridor and fled the lab as fast as he could. His pace increased by the knowledge that the tech was watching his progress all the way down the corridor until he was out of sight.

X X X X X X

Nick thought about his exchange with the DNA tech on and off for the remainder of the shift. He had a case, a convenience store robbery gone bad; and he worked the scene with Warrick with almost all of his usual focus. But there were some tasks that, after doing the job as long as he had, allowed him to run on comfortable autopilot and that was when his thoughts drifted back to the DNA lab. Again and again. He crouched on the dirty tiled floor of the run-down store, ignoring the stretch along the back of his thighs from staying in position for too long. Smoothed the print tape along the bottom shelf with sure fingers, idly watching the edges flatten against the moulded plastic. Thinking. It was as though she knew something he did not.

And anyway, who speaks to someone like that on first meeting? Nick knew that he had high standards when it came to politeness, his mother had instilled in him the importance of manners at a very early age, but even so. He shook his head, holding his breath for a moment as he carefully lifted the tape and held it up to the light to examine it.

One good print and three partials. Great. He hummed with satisfaction and fixed the tape to the card, storing it away. It was the way her face changed when he mentioned Greg, he thought. He hadn't meant to mention Greg at all, and certainly had not meant for her to hear it. Nick sighed heavily, sitting back on his heels and watching Warrick lean over the counter with his camera.

Something was still missing. He wished he knew what it was.

By the end of the shift, Nick had decided firmly that the green-eyed DNA tech, whatever her name was, was a very strange individual indeed and that best practice was going to be avoidance. Aside from the fact that she made him feel uncomfortable, he was embarrassed by the way he had acted. It was not like him at all to be lost for words. He did not know what it was, then, at the start of the next shift, that compelled him to make two cups of coffee instead of one. He added milk to the second one, but not sugar, playing on the safe side. Picked up both cups and headed for DNA, pushing the heavy glass door open with some effort using only his hip.

He felt it again, straightaway, and with such force he had to tighten his grip on the cups to keep from sloshing coffee out onto the floor. Maybe it was her. Did he find her attractive? Nick stared at her again for long seconds, eyes travelling over the unruly hair, dark blue lab coat a little too big for her small frame, deft, slender, gloved fingers. She was pretty, sure, in a disorganised kind of way, but he didn't think that was it.

Telling himself firmly to stop over-analysing, Nick moved to set one of the cups down carefully.

"Not there!"

She had not even glanced up to acknowledge him until this point, and the sudden harsh volume of her voice rent the small space and made Nick jump, in spite of himself. He froze, sliding nervous eyes to hers. Tried to remember, vainly, why he had decided to walk voluntarily back into the lion's den.

"Do you know how much that GCMS cost? No...I don't suppose you do, Mr CSI." She rolled her eyes and motioned impatiently for Nick to move to the other side of the lab. "Ok, so if we can keep all hot liquids away from the expensive equipment, that would be just great."

Nick stood very still for a second or two, mouth slightly open. Cups held out in front of him, inches from the tabletop. What was this woman's problem? And more to the point, why was he allowing it to become his problem?

"Tell you what, Nicole. Just pass it here." She smiled with one corner of her mouth and held out a hand.

"Nicole?!"

She did not reply as she accepted the cup and breathed in the steam deeply. Nick's mind was racing as he set his own cup down on the counter and faced her over it.

"Nicole?" He repeated, knowing there was an edge to his voice.

"It suits you," she replied, shrugging, as if that were the end of the matter. "This coffee sucks."

Once more, Nick seemed to be lost for words. He cast around in his head for some sort of appropriate response to being called a girl's name and having his coffee insulted – the coffee he had made for her out of pure goodwill – but came up with nothing. Only that feeling of loss, again intensified, clawing uncomfortably at his insides. When he did speak, at last, he was horrified to realize too late that he was apologising.

"Sorry. You're right, it's disgusting. What we need is Greg's coffee, but he's not in for hours yet."

And there was that twinge again, that ache. But he felt himself smiling too, the unconscious movement of his facial muscles serving only to confuse him further. The tech caught his smile and responded with a smirk of her own. She turned away for a split second and tapped something into her keyboard before returning her eyes to him. They seemed to pin him right to the spot, and Nick squirmed uncomfortably under her scrutiny.

"Greg's coffee. Sure. And by the by, my name is Karis. K-A-R-I-S. I realize you didn't ask, but I figured you could use a little help with your manners."

Nick was stunned. His manners? His?

"You don't say much, do you Nicolette?" She grimaced as she took a sip of what was, admittedly, brown sludge. "Maybe you're the strong, silent type, huh? Ok. Now run along, I'm sure you got important CSI stuff to do, who knows..." she laughed harshly and set the cup down. " Someone might have come back to life while you were standing here."

"Right. Karis. Sure," Nick mumbled as he turned and walked slowly out of the lab and down the corridor, looking for someone, anyone, who would speak to him like a normal person.

He felt twisted inside and he did not think it was all to do with the way Karis was treating him. After all, it didn't really matter what she thought. He hated how everything felt different since the shift change. How when he walked through these halls, the faces were, for the most part, unfamiliar. He had worked enough double and triple shifts to recognise most of them, but it wasn't the same.

It was silly, but he ached to sit at the break room table with Sara and Greg, laughing or eating lunch, or batting theories back and forth. He was full of admiration for the amount of energy Greg had for making fun of Sara, or himself, even though he was effectively working both in the field and in the lab. Trying to hard to prove himself. He always had a smile for me, Nick thought as he threw himself down into an empty chair. Not like some people.

Something unidentifiable crept through him as he sat there, something warm. Something that seemed to wrap around the ache inside him and smooth it over, just for a second. He registered, with surprise, that he was smiling, before the smile slipped from his face and the dull feeling returned. Weird. He had only been thinking of Greg.

X X X X X X

"Well, good evening, Nikita," sang Karis as the door clicked shut behind Nick.

She had her back to the door, but Nick was somehow less than surprised that she knew it was him. When he had started the walk towards DNA on the third evening, he had stopped trying to fight it. Maybe it was a distraction, not that he had any particularly bad cases at the moment, but even so. He had always found his distraction in the DNA lab, listening to Greg talk about anything from his bizarre sexual predilections to his frankly enormous and diverse collection of interests, some of which Nick often suspected were made up on the spur of the moment to impress. He realized now that he never minded that, he just liked to listen to Greg talk.

A none-too-subtle cough shook Nick out of his reminiscence and he handed Karis the cup that he had neglected to notice was burning his hand. There was something else he had failed to notice, too. Karis was playing music. The lab had been silent during his two previous visits, and he was mildly surprised, having assumed she preferred to work in silence, unlike Greg, who liked his music loud and unrelenting.

Nick was even more surprised when he listened for a moment and recognised the song.

"You like the Beach Boys? That's...interesting."

He smiled at her over the top of his coffee cup, reminded once more that he should not judge by appearances. He would have imagined the cool, acerbic Karis listening to something pretentious or darkly classical. Not happy, jangly songs about girls and surfing.

"Yeees..." she replied, a warning note evident in her voice, before she changed tack abruptly and shrugged. "I'm a California girl."

"Greg's from California," said Nick, before he had time to formulate a more intelligent response.

What Greg had to do with this, he had no idea, but Karis was laughing.

"He sure is, Nanette." And again with the typing. She hit return and leaned on the counter, facing Nick. Her green eyes were positively gleaming. "Where would we be, without your razor sharp powers of observation? Honestly, I shudder to even imagine."

Nick felt suddenly exposed, as though she could see through him, through all of his protective layers down to his very core. Reflexively, he crossed his arms over his chest.

"What part of California?" He asked, just to say something. Noticed his accent came out a little more pronounced that usual, a sure sign to anyone who knew him that he was feeling defensive.

"Sacramento."

"Why Vegas?"

"I could ask you the same question, Nina."

"I've been here years," Nick shot back, having no idea why it mattered. Karis only smirked and shook her head, allowing dark curls to flick over her shoulder.

"What makes you think I haven't? You're the one that's new on this shift, not me."

He hadn't thought of that, and not for the first time within these walls, he felt stupid.

"I never saw you before," he offered weakly, knowing it was no excuse. Maybe it was true what she said about CSIs.

"Come on now, Noreen, pull yourself together. It's not my fault if you can't notice what's right in front of your damn nose."

Nick sighed and turned to leave. He hated swing shift, it was official.

"And I don't mean me," called Karis, her voice floating out to him just before the door swung shut.

X X X X X X

This time, Nick did everything he could not to think about what Karis had said. It seemed like her words were cutting closer and closer to a truth he was not quite ready for. The missing. Fortunately, it was a heavy shift and Nick needed all of his concentration for the evidence. He was concentrating so hard, in fact, that he did not notice Greg until he was almost on top of him. Nick did not see the younger man, but felt his warm breath on the back of his neck as he leaned over the table in the layout room, poring over a stained check blanket.

"Whatcha doing?"

Nick closed his eyes briefly, feeling the rush in his stomach. The shock. He hated being crept up on, and Greg knew that – he hated it too.

"How about you back up a little there, Greggo? What are you doing here, anyway? Your shift doesn't start for over an hour."

Nick turned around, noting with satisfaction that Greg had taken several steps backward. He realised he had not set eyes on his young co-worker for well over a week, not even to talk to as one started work and the other finished. He took in the same old grin, the warm dark eyes, the toned-down spikes of dirty blond hair. Long limbs, languid posture, baggy jeans and dark fitted t-shirt. Everything was the same, and the familiarity flooded Nick with something like relief.

It seemed like everything was new worlds of surreal on swing shift, and the sight of Greg looking so, well, Greg, was heartening. Nick was smiling, and he did not want to stop.

"I'm a busy man, Nick, things to do, you know? Got to keep the game up…and plus, I kind of need the overtime." Greg's grin turned rueful, lopsided. "They weren't kidding about the pay cut."

"It's good to see you," Nick replied, patting Greg on the shoulder. He felt warm.

"You too, man."

Nick wished he had more control over his mouth, because by rights he should have just smiled and left it at that. They were guys, and guys did not doing mushy stuff, even if they were really good friends. Instead, what he said was:

"I miss you...um...what I mean is, I miss you all, you know, night shift. Sara, and Gris – well mainly Sara. Tell her I said hi."

Nick closed his mouth and patted Greg on the arm one more time before making a swift exit from the room leaving a confused former lab tech behind. He headed for DNA, with a quick detour via the break room for coffee, as he knew he would. He was still smiling as he pushed the door open and held one cup out, no longer risking looking for a spot to put it that Karis would approve of.

"Oh good grief, Norah, if you could see the look on your face."

She pushed an errant curl from her eyes with the tip of her little finger, holding the rest of her gloved digits clear of her face. Nick was puzzled. He tried to look serious.

"Yes," she continued with a sigh. "I've seen him too."

"Who?"

"Sanders, as if you don't know. He was in here about five minutes ago trying to tell me I was listening to the devils' music."

"He used to say that about the Johnny Cash CD in my car," offered Nick, not really aware of Karis any more, just lost in the flash of memory, Greg sitting in the passenger seat of his car, one finger on the eject button, an exaggerated grimace on his face, the other hand clamped to his ear in mock pain. They were driving to a scene, and Greg had somehow managed to berate him about that one CD all the way there.

"Out," instructed Karis, taking the cup and pointing at the door. "I have far too much to do to hold your hand while you tread the line between reason and insanity. Let's face it, we both know which side you're going to come down on."

Nick did as he was bid, and smiled on and off for the last hour of his shift. He smiled all the way home, too.

X X X X X X

The next shift, Nick did not take coffee with him when he visited the DNA lab. This was not a social call, he actually had results to collect from Karis. Not that he supposed the other visits were strictly social, either. He took her bad coffee, and she verbally abused him. It was a strange trade-off, Nick decided, but he was still trying not to overthink things.

"The DNA under her fingernails is her own," said Karis, her tone efficient as she proffered a printout.

"That's strange," Nick replied, almost thinking out loud, remembering a similar case a few years ago. Greg was eating noodles that day, though he had no idea why he would recall something like that. "A couple of years ago, Greg and I had this case where –"

Nick closed his mouth abruptly at the look on Karis' face. It chilled him. She spoke.

"Ok, that's it. That is the absolute limit. I point blank refuse to keep my mouth shut another second longer."

"Keep your...mouth shut? What? You?"

"I've been reserved, Natalie, I really have. Believe me." She tapped at her keyboard again. "So here's the thing. I've had a little...let's say down time...this week. That, combined with the fact that you seem to have been drawn in here like the proverbial moth to the proverbial flame led me to put together a little visual...a presentation, if you will."

"I kind of miss presentations," Nick mused, "Greg used to – "

"That's it – right there! You just can't help it, can you?" Karis spun her monitor around with one hand so that it faced Nick. He regarded it, frowning. The screen was flooded with colours and lines, a page full of graphs, charts and numbers. He squinted to see the words, but it did not matter because clearly he was going to get a full walk-through.

"So. Here's one that shows how long it takes you to mention him from when you walk through the door." She pointed with her pen.

"Here's one for how many times you mention him, per visit and per day." Green eyes flicked briefly to Nick's, then back.

"This one is for how often you get a soppy ass smile on your face when you talk about him. That's currently standing at 100. Well done there, very consistent."

She almost smiled, then, resting one hand on top of the monitor and tapping on the screen. Nick was stunned, and said nothing.

"And this one here, well, it's not very scientific, but I think it gets my point across. I like to call it 'How dumb is my CSI guy for not knowing he's in love with Greg Sanders?"

"What...?"

"You scored a ten, right there, Nadine."

Karis smiled then, and it was a smile Nick had not previously witnessed. Not a smirk, or a grimace, or even the sardonic lift of one corner of her mouth that was almost a smile. This smile exposed both rows of small, straight teeth and crinkled the corners of mocking green eyes, softening them. She looked warm. Just for a moment, too quick for Nick to even smile back, before the cool mask dropped once more over her features.

Nick stood, dumbstruck, as Karis pulled her monitor back around, snapped on a pair of gloves and started into a fresh pile of samples. She was ignoring Nick as she normally did, giving no sign that she had just given him the verbal equivalent of a punch to the stomach, other than the soft, contented humming that Nick heard escaping from between her pursed lips.

Because that was ridiculous. He wasn't in love with Greg. Greg was a guy. A man. He was...Greg. Nick felt that strange warmth rising in his gut once more and he pushed it down. Karis was way out of line. She didn't even know him, not really. And yet he got this feeling, when she looked at him, that she could see every secret he had ever kept.

Maybe the ones you keep from yourself, too, suggested the little voice in his head. Nick hated that little voice. It was the one that said things that made him uncomfortable, the one he could not quiet. The one that made him feel like he was missing something. That voice had wanted to talk about Greg quite a lot recently. What Nick had not realized, however, was that this treacherous voice was somehow escaping his lips for those in the real world to hear. Namely Karis, it turned out. Damn.

Nick sat down heavily on the locker room bench, then jumped, startled to realize where he was. He did not remember leaving the DNA lab. Or even how he got here. No doubt Karis would truly believe he had lost his mind now. God damn Karis. Everything was fine before he spoke to her. Perfectly fine. Ok, a little weird, but fine. He didn't have almost total strangers calling him girls' names and telling him he was in love with male co-workers.

Allowing a long, low groan to escape, Nick dropped his head into his hands, resting elbows on his knees.

What was she trying to do to him? Love Greg. In love with Greg. He shivered, but it was not an unpleasant sensation.

What was love, anyway?

Nick knew that seeing Greg made him smile. Knew that he liked to have him around. In fact, knew that it hurt not to have him around. Things felt immeasurably better when Greg was near him…the nearer the better. He knew how much he touched the younger man, even if most of the time he shrugged it off as normal guy's stuff, or better still, did not think of it at all.

He knew that he loved the sound of Greg's voice, his laughter. His funny, mocking asides and his outrageous stories. Nick knew that he admired Greg's drive, his determination, his relentless good humour in the face of difficulty. Nick knew, and paid attention to, what Greg liked and disliked. He didn't think he could even take a stab at what Warrick's favourite song or food was, but he knew all about Greg, information stored away somewhere within him, just in case.

All this he knew. And there was still more, that he thought he might know. He thought he liked Greg's dark eyes fixed on him as he worked – he missed that. He thought that his fingers itched when Greg wore short sleeves because actually, they wanted to reach out and stroke that soft pale skin. God.

But still, Nick could not be sure. There was no getting away from the simple fact that, well…come on, Nick, he urged himself. You can think it.

Greg—is—a—man.

"I am, yeah, but thanks for straightening that out."

Nick's head shot up at the sound of his voice, his momentary embarrassment dissolved as he saw Greg, lounging against the lockers, a small smile of amusement curving his lips. And Nick was looking at those lips. At his hair, slightly askew. Wanting to touch. And…fuck. Yes. Fucking Karis.

Greg was staring at him now, mouth slightly open, silent. The tip of his tongue flicked out and ran over his lower lip nervously.

"Um...you ok Nick?"

He took a deep breath, knowing that the raw newness of this feeling meant he could not lie to Greg.

"Yeah. Apparently...apparently, I love you."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Greg pushed himself off from the lockers and sat down next to Nick. Did not say anything for a long time.

"Is that a problem?" He asked eventually; so softly, uncharacteristically gentle. Nick ached and shuddered, suddenly wanting to be touched, knowing it was exactly what he needed to soothe the ache away. Knowing that now.

His heart was racing at the nearness, the warm, rich smell of Greg. It was intoxicating.

"I don't know," Nick said honestly. "I wasn't expecting it."

"Ok," ventured Greg. "Well, sometimes unexpected is good. I kind of like surprises. I'm surprised right now, actually, and I like it very much."

Nick looked up, straight into Greg's dark eyes, a jolt of electricity carving down his spine. His eyes are spectacular, he thought. He had noticed them, he knew that now. He had just failed to notice that he was noticing them. So open and sparkling with something new. Excitement, hope. Tentative, but unmistakeable. And the smile...god. Sara's smile was something, it really was, but Greg's smile could light the darkest space.

Finally hearing the other man's words, Nick forced himself to focus, though he wanted to let the room swirl around him as it was trying to do.

"You like me, Greg?" Disbelief shot through every word.

Greg said nothing then, just continued to smile and reached out, threading strong, warm fingers through Nick's and holding on tightly. Nick looked down at their joined hands and sighed with relief. He had known somehow, that he needed the touch, just not quite how much.

"Yeah, I like you. Glad to see you finally got with the program."

Greg laughed and Nick realised, not for the first time, how much he loved that sound. And Greg was leaning forward. Greg's free hand was on his face, the other one still gripping his firmly. He felt Greg's thumb stroke his cheekbone lightly and shivered. So close now.

Surely he couldn't want this. His thoughts still tangled and wrestled as the last seconds closed in. He couldn't want Greg Sanders to kiss him. Not here. Not anywhere. He didn't...but he did, he wanted it. His whole body was crackling with it, the yearning intensified until it became unbearable, with only one solution. At the centre of the ache was Greg, and he needed it. Right now.

He did not know if he had thought the world would somehow implode if his lips touched Greg's, but either way it didn't. That warm feeling he had been pushing away overtook him, coursing through his veins, heating his skin. Greg's lips were soft but firm, unlike anything Nick had experienced before. And, he suspected, nothing would ever feel quite like them again. They fit. Greg did not just allow himself to be kissed, like so many women he had been with. He was energetic, enthusiastic, skilful, his want and need reflected in the way he was urging Nick's lips open with his tongue, gentle pressure, a light flick into his mouth and a careful, slow tracing of the soft, moist flesh.

Nick realised suddenly that he was the one sitting there and being kissed. He gave in at last to his urge to touch, and pulled Greg closer by the tops of his arms. Greg shifted awkwardly, at the wrong angle on the bench, and Nick heard himself groan with frustration. Not wanting to relinquish this delicious connection now he had it. Greg clearly had other ideas, and without breaking the kiss for a second, was twisting and climbing over him, straddling his lap and threading fingers into his hair. Nick thought he might pass out from sensory overload. He kept his eyes squeezed shut but the combination of Greg's smell in his nostrils, Greg's warm, bittersweet taste on his tongue and Greg's steady, shifting pressure in his lap was almost too much. Nick's head was spinning, and all he did know for sure was that he no longer felt like anything was missing.

Greg looked down at Nick as they broke away, eyes clouded with desire. Resting hands heavily on his shoulders and sitting back in the position he had somehow found his way into during the kiss, kneeling on the bench, knees either side of Nick's thighs, pressing him back into the wall.

Both were breathing hard, and Nick fought for each one, knowing that any kind of control right now would be a start. His erection was straining and pushing uncomfortably against his zipper; and he could feel Greg's response hard against his thigh.

"I don't get it," he managed at last. "I don't think I'm..."

"What? Gay?" Greg stage-whispered, arching one eyebrow for dramatic effect.

Nick wondered how Greg seemed to be so in control. Perhaps because he had seen this coming. Perhaps because he was not the one being pinned down.

"You think too much." Greg kissed him again, softer this time. "Let's not worry about that for now."

He pushed Nick back against the wall once more and claimed his lips. Nick gasped, feeling the breath stolen from him but not wanting to break contact, sinking into the kiss and losing himself. He pushed his tangled thoughts into a dark corner and brought his hands up to grip at Greg's hair, trying to pull him closer. But Greg was pulling away, breathing ragged. His eyes wide and dark.

"We have to stop."

"Why?"

"I'm supposed to be working and you're supposed to be at home, that's why."

He breathed out, slowly, deliberately. Allowed reality to settle in around him as Greg slid back onto his feet and opened his locker. Nick watched him for a moment. He did a good impression of calm.

"Right. Maybe I'll take Karis out for a beer. Figure she deserves that much," Nick mused, talking mostly to himself. Standing up and stretching.

"Who?"

"Karis. The DNA tech from swing. She helped me figure out a few things."

"Seriously, Nick, who?" Greg looked confused. Nick wanted, suddenly, to kiss the expression off his face, but right now he was distracted by the matter in hand.

"You know, Karis. Dark hair, green eyes, kinda mean. Calls people by girl's names? Come on Greggo, I thought all you lab rats knew each other. She knows you."

"There's no-one here named Karis, Nick." Greg paused. "Are you feeling ok?"

Nick paled. Thought back over the last week. Greg knew Karis, he had to. But then…she might have said she had spoken to Greg about music, but he had no way of knowing for sure. In fact, had he ever seen Karis speak to anyone but him? He knew he hadn't mentioned her to Warrick or Catherine, he had been too ashamed of them finding out how she spoke to him.

_..."You don't say much, do you Nicolette?"..._

Something cold traced down his spine. Surely he was not so far gone he was making up lab techs. If he was going crazy...a lot of this would make sense. Greg. Oh, god. If he had somehow–

Nick's train of thought was abruptly cut off by the sound of warm laughter. Greg's.

"Oh, man, you are too easy," Greg gasped, leaning back against the lockers, giggling helplessly. "Karis is great. Although I didn't know how great, until just now. I think we both owe her a beer or ten."

Nick, realising he had been had, coloured and pushed Greg hard away from him, quickly shooting out a hand to grab him before he actually lost his balance.

"But why did she..?"

Greg shrugged. "Knowing Karis, probably just to amuse herself. I'm not complaining."

Nick stepped closer and pinned him against the lockers. His voice low and urgent.

"Kiss me again."

As Greg's lips touched his once more, the missing piece slid into place and locked. Firm. The rest, he could figure out later.

FIN


	2. Foolish Games

**Real/ize** – chapter 2 – _Foolish Games_ - By Sara's Girl

AN – This is from Nick's POV, first person.

Inspired by _Foolish Games_ by Jewel

Reviews make me very happy and are much appreciated.

X X X X X

_You took your coat off, stood in the rain. You were always crazy like that._

_I watched from my window. Always felt I was outside, looking in on you._

_You were always the mysterious one, with dark eyes and careless hair_

_You were fashionably sensitive, but to cool to care._

_You stood in my doorway, with nothing to say, besides some comment on the weather._

_Well in case you failed to notice, in case you failed to see._

_This is my heart, bleeding before you. This is me down on my knees._

_These foolish games are tearing me apart._

_And your thoughtless words are breaking my heart. You're breaking my heart._

I'm not sleeping, even though it's late afternoon and that is exactly what I should be doing. Instead I am lying full length on the couch, listening to the rain. It doesn't rain often in Vegas, which is a shame, because I actually quite like it. Everything feels somehow cleaner, refreshed after a shower, as though the fall of water can cleanse away the darkness that sticks to the streets. I cannot see it, because the blackout blinds are pulled down tight, cloaking the room in darkness, but the sound is reassuring against the window. I just listen, lacing my fingers together beneath my head and try to relax my aching back into the worn leather cushions. I love this couch, the way it moulds to my body as if it's just an extension of me. The leather is soft and cool under my feet as I drag them in, flat to the cushion, bending my knees. The rhythm of the rain is soothing, but not enough to make me fall asleep.

I will not sleep, because I have this feeling that you are going to turn up at my door, and when it comes to you I am hardly ever wrong. You had a bad case last night, we both did. Two fifteen-year-old boys stabbed on the way home from school. The look on your face when one of the kids we interviewed said that they deserved it, that they were faggots..that look was one of pure pain. It was quick, and I do not think anyone else noticed it, but I did. I noticed. I always notice you. You went straight home as soon as shift was over. I stood back for you in the corridor and watched you almost trip over Warrick in your scramble to get to your car. You are so afraid of letting anyone see your emotions. It feels sometimes like you would rather no one knew you had any at all; as if they would have more respect for you as a CSI if that were true.

I suspect that the only person who gets to know when something affects you is me. And not because you tell me in so many words. You won't say 'that case really got to me today, Nick' or 'I could use someone to talk to', but you will tell me, in your own way. Without words, usually, or using as few as possible. There is a place for some words, in this comfort you seek from me. For words like 'god' and 'now' and 'please'. The words that tumble from your lips as you kneel up on this couch and push yourself back onto me harder, throwing your head back, hair heavy with sweat and fingers gripping the leather until your knuckles turn white. More expressive still are the soft moans and hisses that seem to be dragged from somewhere deep within you, drawn out by my touch on your heated skin. By me, driven deep inside your body, hard, until we cannot get any closer.

Sometimes it's the other way around, and you are equally intoxicating when you are on top, especially when I can see your face, when I can stare up at you and watch your changing expressions, the way your dark eyes widen and then flutter shut when you get close. You pound into me, fast and relentless, as though any moment the whole thing might be gone, as though someone is going to take it away from you.

Mostly though, you insist that I take you, and though it might seem to an observer that I am the one in control, that's simply not true. You demand me, and I give it to you willingly. It is in those moments, the ones when you ask for it. That is when it is written all over your face how much you are hurting, or weary, or frustrated, and you don't need words.

X X X X X

I almost can't remember how all of this started, which is stupid because it has not been that long; even though sometimes it feels like this is the only way it has ever been. The first time, it had nothing to do with work at all. We were drunk, or at least you were. We had been out for Catherine's birthday, to some club I had never been inside before. Catherine, knocked off balance by the cocktails we had been buying for her all night, insisted that everyone dance with everyone at least once.

It's a little hazy now with time but I remember watching you as Catherine stood beside Warrick and I on the dancefloor. Catherine giggling helplessly at our attempts to dance whilst trying to demonstrate that we were still men, not wanting to make eye contact or touch each other but determined to get through at least one fast song to humour her. Warrick didn't – still doesn't – know that I'm gay, and I prefer it that way. You were dancing with Sara, or trying to, at any rate, Sara is not particularly at home on the dance floor. You were trying, though, grabbing her hand and spinning her around, trying to get her to move her hips. Several beers had thrown you slightly off kilter but not enough to compromise your natural rhythm, the smaller movements fluid beneath your skin. I remember thinking you looked striking under the lights, all angles and strong lines and contrasts.

I could not take my eyes off you, and I was surprised, because up until that point I had not realised I was attracted to you at all. The feeling hit me with force, and stole my breath from me. When the song was over, you looked straight at me, and I knew you knew I wanted you. You just smiled, the same smile as you had been giving me for years, but this time it made my mouth turn dry and my cock twitch. Suddenly everyone was leaving, Catherine tugging at my sleeve haphazardly whilst Warrick tried to hold her upright. The others were around too, making their way to the exit, but all I could think about was that I never got to dance with you.

I lost you somewhere as we moved through the crowds, and by the time I got out to my car and waved the others off into the night, I had decided that it was a good thing you were not around because you looking the way you did, and me feeling the way I did was a recipe for disaster. Not that I complained when you emerged from behind my car and pushed me against it, swaying only slightly but out of control as you kissed me. I kissed you back, pulling you hard against me with both hands, surprised that the force of your need seemed to match mine. I had had no idea you were into guys as well as girls, much less that you would find me attractive. I think what happened that night surprised us both with its intensity, and for me the relief of a tension I had previously been unaware of. I wondered, as I lay there afterwards with you practically passed out and draped across me, whether I had wanted you all those years and not known it.

You felt good in my arms and I fell asleep with one hand stroking the smooth curve of your back, the other twisted into your damp hair. When I woke up you were gone, as I had half-expected you to be. I did not know whether I was disappointed or not. I didn't love you or anything, but you were my friend and we had just had loud, frantic, desperate sex with each other, and it was incredible, at least for me. I was unsure of what was supposed to happen next.

We never mentioned it, though, just worked together as if nothing had happened. I could cope with that, and I could cope with how dangerously attractive I suddenly found you. I tried not to look or touch too much, but it was a constant challenge.

The first day you knocked on my door, I was sleeping. When I eventually opened the door to you, I was wearing only old trackpants and a t-shirt, and I had a feeling my hair was sticking up in ten different directions. My eyes were sleep-clouded and I rubbed them with the back of my hand, staring at you, the tension etched into your face and tightening fingers that wrapped around my doorframe. Your voice was rough and harsh when you asked simply if you could come in, and after a moment I stood back for you. When the door clicked shut, you leaned against it with your whole weight, head on one side, eyes huge and locked on mine, freezing me to the spot. My desire for you was mixed with confusion and the best thing I could think of to do was to offer you a drink – beer, coffee, soda…? You shook your head slowly and grabbed the front of my t-shirt, hauling me close. I lost my balance as you pulled and shot arms out, ending up with hands at either side of your head, braced against the door, inches apart.

You were barely breathing, and I could feel the heat of you through your clothes. Confusion died when I felt you hard against me and pushed my hips against yours, eliciting a soft moan from you that passed a shiver through me. I saw the plea, the request burning in your eyes and I only waited a second before I closed the distance and kissed you.

We did not make it to the bedroom that time, neither of us could stand to let go of the connection for long enough to move. In the end, once enough of your clothes had found their way to the floor, I spun you around and pushed you back into the door, one hand steadying you, gripping your hip as I thrust inside you, the other covering yours as you braced yourself again the doorframe, crushed face-first into the wood, not caring, crying out and urging me to keep going, and 'more, please Nick.'

Tightening around me when I bit down into your shoulder, spilling onto your own hand with a strangled cry. It was rough and did not last long, and I thought I might combust from the intensity of it, the relief that flooded my veins was warm and almost painful as I emptied myself into you.

When we slid to the floor afterwards, tangled, sticky, breathless, neither of us said anything for a long time. You leaned your head back against the door and slid soft, sleepy brown eyes to mine. Stretched long arms above your head momentarily and then let them fall, legs thrown over mine, bare feet rubbing against the rough hall carpet.

"Why do people do things like that? I just don't get it," you asked quietly, and I was not sure if I could give you an answer, but I was starting to understand something at least.

Everyone's first child abuse case affects them in different ways. I know that Warrick went to the Palms and blew a month's wages. Me, I stuck with tradition and got very, very drunk. It seems that your instinctive response to this particular trauma was to get fucked up against my front door. Eventually, you cleaned up and left, and I was left with my thoughts. Honestly, I was not sure what to think. The spreading hum of contentment under my skin was tempered by anxiety and a spike of excitement. Because I wanted it, I hadn't stopped thinking about you since the club, you made me hot like no one had in a very long time. But still, you weren't just any guy, you were Greg, and I didn't quite know what to do with that. We were careful, because you had come prepared, and that was a strange feeling – that you were so confident I would want you. Not that it mattered, because you were right.

The next time you turned up, you looked on the edge of tears, and that time I managed to get you all the way into my bedroom before your lips touched mine and we both lost it.

Six months on, it is still sex, and you still barely say a word until afterwards, but it isn't just bad cases that drive you to my door. The job is your main focus, like mine, it has to be. But you care about other things too, even though the others seem to be quick to forget. They did not even seem to notice how subdued you were when your Papa Olaf was ill a few weeks back. I know you were worried sick, because you were here almost every other night for a while. I pretended I did not notice that we were seeing each other more frequently, and I never asked you to stay. I knew though, how afraid you were. You even talked about him a little, and I listened, trying to offer support without crossing that line.

You are not using me. I would not allow that, and besides that would suggest I was getting nothing from the situation. It isn't like that, and I believe - I want to believe – that you are not like that, anyway. Our relationship, for want of a better word, is a two-way street. I know I could stop it at any time, just say the words, and things could go back to the way they were before any of this started, before we crossed that line. Or at least, as close to that as possible, I am not naïve enough to think that we could ever get back that easy banter and playful teasing that once characterised our relationship, but we would be ok. We are both grown men, professionals, and we could do it.

But we won't, because you need comfort and you do not know how to ask for it any other way. And because I could not bear to give you up.

I wonder sometimes what people who know us both would say if they knew what we do. It's irrelevant I suppose because no one will ever know. It has been the unspoken agreement between us since right after the first time you found your way into my bed. At work the next night, when I walked into the break room and saw you talking to a worse-for-wear Catherine, you caught my eye and the look we exchanged was explicit. We did not need words. This was, and still is, between you and me.

At least, it is mostly just between you and me, and I did not break the rule on purpose, it just happened. It isn't my fault that my baby sister knows me better than I know myself. I wasn't aware how much I mentioned you, how your name would come up in our conversations that you had nothing to do with; at least not until she called me on it. I tried to defend myself but she wasn't having any of that 'macho bullshit' as she calls it, about sex being sex, and no more. She thought I was falling in love with you, and I denied it.

I can appreciate sex for just what it is, I really can. And with you, it is incredible. You make me feel things I did not know were possible. I do not want to know where you learned some of things you know how to do, the things that make me breathless and out of control, and that drag this voice from me that I had never heard before you. It is low and pleading and I use it to beg you, something I never thought I would do, but sometimes I want you with such an intensity that I don't even care. I love every little thing about how I fit into you, and you fit into me, it's perfect. The way your lean muscles tense under my fingers when I touch you, the way the ridge of your cock feels under my tongue, the way you taste. The way you dig blunt nails into my back and look right into my eyes when you tell me how good it feels. The way you never stop moving, except for the few minutes after you come, when I lick sweat from your chest up the side of your neck, brushing lips against damp curls and feeling you smile, just for a second.

At first, you would leave straightaway; one minute you would be lying flat on your back, flushed and struggling to get control of your breathing, the next you would be sitting up, pulling your clothes on and preparing to leave. Sometimes you would sit there for a moment or two, fully dressed on the edge of the bed or the couch, regarding me in silence. I never made a move to get up or cover myself because it was my house, and anyway, I cannot recover after sex as rapidly as you do. You used to tease me about getting old, back before everything changed. You used to smile more then, too. I didn't get to kiss you or feel every inch of you under my fingers back then, but it was less complicated, and the games we played were of a much less risky variety. No one gets their heart broken from flirting.

I told myself not to care when you threw me an awkward half-smile, told me you'd see me at work, and left. I also ignored the almost undetectable question in your voice when you said it, because that sliver of insecurity could mean worlds to me if I let it. The first time you turned to me, halfway through dressing, and asked if I had any coffee, I just stared at you. I was unnerved, to say the least. I was curious, too, so I allowed you to stay, let you rummage through my kitchen cupboards wearing just your jeans. I watched you, from my seat at the kitchen table, watched the muscles in your back tighten and stretch under the splash of scars laid out across your shoulders and spine. You were beautiful. You still are.

That's just what we do now, sex and coffee. After that day, you stayed every time. Sometimes I make the coffee, though we both know it's better when you do. I almost bought some of the expensive stuff you like, once, but I put it back on the shelf because that is the sort of thing that a boyfriend would do, not whatever I am. Whatever we are. I hate all the words for it. I'm not a prude, either, I have had flings, one night stands, too. I just never expected it with you, I never expected any of it.

Sometimes, after we have both drained our cups, your glance or mine will flare and we will end up back in the bedroom, or however far we get before we have to choose between walking straight and kissing frantically. More often than not, though, we just sit and talk. You hold your cup in both hands, resting elbows on the table, looking at me over the rim. Sometimes you smoke. You like menthol cigarettes, I notice, and it is just one more pointless and surprising little detail about you that I file away in the box with your name on it inside my head. You flick ash lazily into a chipped saucer and listen to me talk about my cases, and my family, and anything that does not prompt awkward questions about what exactly we are doing.

Mostly you let me talk, and the way your eyes fix on me as you listen is almost enough to make me believe that you are hanging on my every word. Your stare is so intense that it feels as though you are draining every last drop from what I say. Like you need it, somehow. Perhaps hearing me ramble on about my mother and father and sisters is part of your healing process. I like to watch the shape of your lips as they purse to blow hot steam from the top of your coffee toward me. You look as though you are concentrating so hard, and it is all I can do not to take the cup out of your hands, pull you out of your chair and into my lap so I can get a closer look at you; so that your skin is touching mine again. I won't do that, though, because there are rules about random acts of intimacy in a game like this. I just watch you and press my fingers flat against the hard wood of my seat, tuck them under my thighs so that I am not tempted to reach for you.

Even though these moments are the most difficult, I think maybe I like them the best. Sometimes you forget to put your emotionless mask back on after the sex and you sit there opposite me, shirtless, hair everywhere, smiling at me, so open. Those days, your posture is more open too – you do not push your elbows out in front of you like some kind of shield, but sit back, one foot drawn up onto the seat, your cup balanced on top of the bent knee, pulled in tight to your chest. Your free hand idly running through the unruly waves at the back of your head. I used to leave the blackout blinds closed right up until it was time to leave for work, but when you are here I open them.

When you wander into the kitchen to make coffee, I walk around flinging them all open, letting the evening sun flood the place with soft, blunt orange or gold. I don't know if is because sitting in the dark with you feels oppressive and heavy, or because I think you prefer to see the sun, but either way, I do it. And you look wonderful in the light, your pale skin glows and every angle of your face and body throws a shadow across it. Sometimes when you are talking I am looking at you instead of listening to what you are saying. It's just that now I have started looking, Greg, I can't seem to stop. It soothes my soul.

I know you are the one looking for comfort, but I need it too. I seem to have this image with people, this core strength that people see in me and use as an excuse to lean on me. I don't mind, most of the time, I like being there for people, and I will admit, there is a part of me that believes that shit about men not needing comfort or reassurance. I suppose I should not expect you to be any different. The comfort I draw from those moments is so easily shattered, because you cannot allow it.

I wish you wouldn't say those things, but more than that, I wish that hearing you say them didn't clench and twist at my insides. Those things about girls you want to date, or girls you have met in clubs. I know you are not like me, I know that you like women too, but still. You are so casual with it, so careless, as if you and I are sitting there in my kitchen under other circumstances. As if we are just two guys who work together, drinking coffee and hanging out. Certainly not as if just minutes before, we had been fused together, naked, dripping, your hands gripping mine on top of wrinkled sheets as you urged me to go faster, harder, dragging me deeper into you and moaning my name as you came. I'm not sure if you know you do that, because it seems so intimate to me and I want to ask you about it, but I won't, because I don't want to scare you away. It feels like we are constantly treading this whisper thin line between nothing and everything. I wonder if you do it consciously; mention those names to remind me that you do not belong to me.

Do you tell me about Jenna, and Laura, and Rachel, and those others, so that I know where I stand with you? So that there's no confusion over my role as fuck buddy and comfort blanket? And I hate those words, but at this moment I do not have any better ones.

Or do you not even think, does it not even cross your mind that I might care about you? That I might be hurt by your words.

I'm tired of this game, Greg, but still I cannot bring myself to call you and tell you not to come around any more. Maybe there's a part, a very small part, of me that dares to hope you are sick and tired of playing it too.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. Because I do love you. I don't know how it happened, and I never asked for it to happen, but it did. I'm locked into the play, because it's what we both signed up for all those months ago, but it isn't what I want any more.

X X X X X

I think, as I lie on the couch and wait, about how it is possible to feel so strong and so powerless at the same time. I know you have feelings, even if you don't want anyone else to see them, and I want to see them. What worries me is if you show me those feelings and there is nothing in them for me, beyond your regard for me as someone who turns you on and can take your pain away by making you come.

I sigh and shift heavily, my eyes sore and gritty with tiredness. I am uncomfortably aware that what I want the most right now is for you to just come to bed with me. And I don't care how it sounds, because no one can hear me. I'm tired, body and soul, and I just want to hold you until we both fall asleep. I want to feel safe, and close my eyes knowing you will be there when I wake up. I can't help but wonder what you would think if you heard that, whether you would laugh. Not that I will ask you to stay, because that would be breaking the rules, the ones that we never made.

When the knock on the door comes, I am not in the least surprised, though I will admit to the tiny current that fizzes between the pit of my stomach and my thighs as I pull myself to my feet to go and answer it. This space is mine, with my unmatched furniture and cups in all the wrong places, but as soon as you are in it, everything becomes uncertain. If I can admit it, I suppose I want it to be your space, too.

You do not wait to be asked in this time, and I do not stop you as you whisper 'Hi' and walk to the bedroom, shrugging off your jacket and already unbuttoning your shirt as you go. I sigh and close the door, following you. It doesn't have to be this way, I know there are other ways I can take your pain away, if only you'd let me. I stand in the doorway watching you, and my heart aches. You look lost. In your eyes, where earlier today I saw an inferno of rage and pain, there is nothing, and that scares me more than I care to admit. You are sitting on the edge of the bed, still trying to unbutton your shirt but not quite managing it, because your hands are shaking and I don't know why. It is the same shirt you were wearing to work, white with green stripes, and I wish you'd just leave it alone because you don't have to do that.

"A little help?" You ask at last, keeping your tone light.

You turn to me and flash a nervous smile, the one you used to give me when I came into your lab for results; back when despite all your brash confidence, I knew you were trying to impress me. When I think of that Greg, and this one sitting on my bed, I feel inexplicably sad; the need to protect you somehow lashing at my insides. Instead I sit down next to you and still your hands, slowly undoing your buttons and pushing the shirt back from your shoulders. The shirt and your skin are damp and cold from the rain I had almost forgotten about. You shiver as I press soft kisses to your neck and I'm painfully aware that I am being more gentle than usual and that you are bound to notice, but I'm struggling to care.

"The world's a horrible place, Greg," I offer at last, answering the question that you did not verbalize last night as we drove away from the school. I run my hands down your arms and kiss you. "That's why you have to have something real to hold onto."

I should not have said that, in fact I should not have said anything, but I'm tired, and so are you, and I'm already thinking about the moment you are going to leave. The air in the room feels heavy on my tongue suddenly, and colder, and I pull you to me instinctively. Skin against skin, your mouth open against my neck as I take you by surprise.

You recover yourself and slide palms firmly down my back, hooking fingers under my waistband and tugging at my sweatpants, pulling them down. I'm painfully hard underneath them and I know you know that too, just from being near you, but I don't want you to touch me like that any more. I don't want to lie here and get each other off and then sit in my kitchen, talking about who you are taking out for dinner at the weekend. I want you, Greg, I want it all.

I reach out and grab your wrists, stopping you from taking off my clothes and you pull away from my neck and blink at me, surprised. I have never pushed you away before. I start to say your name but the words catch in my throat and there are tears pricking hotly at the insides of my eyelids. I blink them away, knowing that whatever happens now, this game is over.

Something shifts in the atmosphere and the tension hums between us like it has not done in a long time. You seem to sense it, and shuffle away from me a little, drawing your legs up onto the bed and picking fitfully at the sheet.

"Don't do this, Nick."

You speak before I have a chance to, and you sound cold and exhausted.

"Do what?"

"Whatever it is you're going to do, to change things. I get it, I just…" you trail off into silence and shake your head. Your hair falls across one of your eyes and you reach up to brush it away, irritated.

You look tired and angry and like you haven't slept properly in days. And yet I feel as consumed with love for you as when you sparkle and charm and flirt. And that is why, I suppose, I can't do this any more, this existing in shades of grey, where you are mine for moments only.

"I'm sick of this," I almost spit, and the intensity of my tone surprises both of us. "I'm sick of doing this with you, whatever we're doing, and still having to listen to you talk about dates like none of it matters to you."

You stare for a moment, something sharpening in your eyes for a split second, then disappearing. You reach behind you and grab your shirt, sliding your arms into it awkwardly, not meeting my eyes.

"Sorry," you mumble, doing up your buttons with slightly surer fingers than before. Your exhalation is long and controlled, as though you are trying to gather yourself before you stand up and look around for your coat.

This isn't how it was supposed to go. You were at least supposed to hang around long enough to listen to my reasons, god knows you've spent enough time listening to me talk about much less important things for the last six months. A little part of me wants to just let you leave, let you walk out so that I do not have to take more of a risk than I have already done.

"It's fine. Yeah. No problem, I'll just go and…yep. Cool. Where's my fucking jacket?"

I drag my eyes back to you because you are pacing and muttering to yourself, so tightly wound, I can feel the tension pouring off you. You aren't talking to me, not really.

I get up and hand you the tangle of soaked denim you dropped on my bedroom floor some minutes ago. Your shrug it back on and bolt for the door. I watch you from a few feet back as you open it, looking out over your shoulder at the rain still falling to the ground, cleansing away everything that shouldn't be there. I love you, and you are running away again.

"Stop fucking running, will you!" The words are out of my mouth before I can smooth them over and you stop dead, halfway out of the door and turn to me. "I'm not playing games with you any more, Greg. I don't want anyone else. I don't want you to want anyone else. I love you."

And I close my eyes, then, because it was not supposed to come out like that. At all. We were supposed to have a conversation, like grown ups, not me shouting after you as you try to escape from my house. There is nothing but silence in the hallway, all I can hear is my own pulse and the scratching in my throat as I rub my eyes, fully expecting you to be gone when I open them.

To my surprise you are still there, you haven't even moved. You are holding onto the door handle like it is stopping you from falling down, and you are chewing on your bottom lip, eyes narrowed and guarded. The rain is coming in through the half open door and for some reason I want to tell you to close it, because the carpet is getting wet.

…'Don't just stand there, you're either in or you're out.'…

My mother says that all the time and it echoes around my head now, out of place, as I watch you.

Finally, you move. With some effort, you peel your damp jacket off once more and drop it on the floor. Hope sparks in my chest. Are you coming back inside? And you are moving towards me, slowly and deliberately, anticipation filling the small space and prickling all over my skin. You grab my hand and pull, hard, yanking me behind you and out onto the doorstep.

The rain is falling hard as we stand there, inches apart, and you do not let go of my hand. You are getting soaked, your thin shirt was already wet and your coat is once more on my carpet. I'm confused, and you are smiling, running your free hand down my chest and reminding me that I'm wearing even less than you are. The wet stone is cold under my feet and the drips running down my back are enough to make me shiver, though that may be because of you too. I don't ask what we are doing standing on my doorstep in the rain, because you have always been a law unto yourself, and I would not change you.

"Love," you say at last, frowning slightly. "It was easier not to fall for you. Love is.."

"Scary?" I offer, because you do not seem to be able to finish your sentence.

Dark eyes flick to mine, intense, before you kiss me. It feels soft and contemplative, if a kiss can feel that way. I think your kisses can. Your hand is resting on my hip now, and when you pull away your face is defiant.

"I don't get scared."

And I laugh, because I know you don't really believe that, and I wonder if it is me or yourself that you are trying to convince.

"Everyone gets scared, Greg."

You smile, first with one small corner of your mouth, your eyes searching mine for an answer. I know the moment you find it, when your smile flashes into life and changes your whole face. Just for a second you look vulnerable, your raw delight exposing you, and I take the opportunity, lifting hands to slide thumbs over cold wet cheekbones and force you to maintain your eye contact with me. I repeat my words, hoping to get through.

"Everyone, Greg. I love you."

Your breath catches and you do not even blink. The hands now wrapped around the tops of my arms are tensed, gripping my muscles so tightly. "Don't hurt me." Choked, a whisper, and the plea is so out of character it takes me by surprise.

I shake my head, feeling the water flick out from my saturated hair as I move. Fuck. I'm freezing, but I won't move.

"I didn't know you wanted more," you say softly, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. I move closer to you and slip my hands under your wet shirt to trace a well-worn pattern on your back.

"You never asked."

"No. I didn't. They say I'm supposed to be smart." The smile is small and self-deprecating and I kiss the edge of it without thinking. Feel the smile widen under my lips.

"Just you and me?" I have to ask, to make sure. I'm still feeling like this might not be real, and I am not about to risk it all on a technicality. "No more games?"

You are grinning now, and I cannot control my face all of a sudden.

"Yes, to just you and me." You kiss me briefly. "No, no more games." You flatten my wet hair against my forehead with your palm and look at me, head on one side. "I love you."

Your words swirl around me and I am no longer cold. The dull ache is melting from me, and I realize I have been holding my breath for a long time. I let it out in a rush, tearing my eyes away from you to look at the grey sky.

The rain is still falling as I pull you back inside the house and close the door. I can hear it tapping on the window pane as we undress unhurriedly and creep into the bed. I let the rhythm of it anchor me as we touch, so slowly in the darkness and rediscover ways to make the other twist and sigh and shiver.

It is heavier now, as I hold you against me, your leg thrown over my hip and your head against my chest. The drumming beat of the downpour that is more somehow than just water on glass. This time, I allow it to pull me into sleep because I know that when I wake up, you will be here.

FIN

X X X X X

_You took your coat off, stood in the rain. You were always crazy like that._


	3. I Like The Way You Move

**Real/ize** part 3 – _I Like the Way You Move -_ By Sara's Girl

AN – so this is shameless porn really, but it does involve Greg figuring out some stuff. I know the nightclub has been done to death, but I also think we are all entitled to write a nightclub story, and this is mine.

This is my first attempt at Greg-first-person, so who knows how it turned out.

Lyrics from 'I Like the Way You Move' by Bodyrockers.

Reviews are better than…than…chocolate covered cherries. Which is saying something, so yes please.

_There's so many things I like about you  
I just don't know where to begin,_

_I like the way you, look at me with those beautiful eyes,  
I like the way you, act all surprised,  
I like the way you, sing along,  
I like the way you, always get it wrong,  
I like the way you, clap your hands,  
I like the way you, love to dance,  
I like the way you, put your hands up in the air,  
I like the way you, shake your hair,  
I like the way you, like to touch,  
I like the way you, stare so much,  
but most of all...  
Yeah..  
most of all_

_I like the way you move_

XXXXX

It's the last time I let a co-worker set me up. Seriously. I know I said that last time too, but this time I really mean it. Because I am sitting here looking at this person and wondering if Catherine actually knows me at all. She's very pretty and all, I'm not denying that. All that long blonde hair and tanned skin that she seems to want to expose as much of as possible. And it's nice, it really is. I snuck a look when she was leaning down to pick up her purse after dinner, and it all looked good. Not that I needed to be sneaky about it at all, she wanted me to look, I could tell by the way she smiled at me when she straightened up. And that hair is pretty spectacular, it's like a sort of shiny curtain, and it smells fantastic. I'm wondering how she would react if I asked her what kind of shampoo she uses. Better not.

She's looking at me now, head tilted on one side, glossy lips pursed as if she's in deep thought. Which I highly doubt. I can't say there was no conversation over dinner, but it was not conversation as I have come to know it. She talked, and I got to say something every time she took a sip of her cocktail or elected to take a breath. It's strange really, because there's a certain amount of oxygen we need in our blood to survive, and I have no idea how she's keeping her levels up, because she _never--stops--talking_.

Of course, if I say that to Catherine, she will laugh and say something like _'that's good coming from you, Greg._' And she would have a good point, normally. I do talk a lot, I'll admit that, it's not exactly something people don't notice about me. But I like to think I allow other people to speak too, and I certainly don't use up all my words on some actor who may, or may not, be splitting up with his wife. Oh god. And now, see, now we are in this club, and it was her idea. Or, at least, partially her idea. I suspect that Catherine has said something to her like;

"Oh, well, Greg's a bit of an exhibitionist, and he likes to dance...why not get him to go to that new club after dinner?"

And if she did, she isn't going to hear the end of it from me, because now I'm sitting here with this very pretty, very boring, very obvious woman who has just informed me with audible delight in her voice, that this place is open until 5am. Fuck.

Catherine has some lovely friends, I know she does. And yet she insists on trying to pair me up with people like Serena. I sometimes wonder what I have possibly done to offend her. I also wonder why it seems to bother her so much that I'm single. After all, so is she, and she's much older than me. I smirk to myself and try to remember not to use that particular line of argument when I confront her at work tomorrow. She almost took a swing for me that time I called her 'Cat', so it's safe to assume that calling her old would result in the removal of my balls at the very least. But, unless she counts her incessant flirtation with Warrick, the woman is a hypocrite. And Nick's single. At least I think he is...and I have never seen her try to set him up with one of her friends. Not once.

And you know...Nick's hot. I'm not attracted to him, or anything, but there's no denying the fact. The man is fucking gorgeous. He probably has them lining up – whatever it is he's into – I've never been too sure with Nick. Not that it's something I think about, but when it's a slow shift, it's natural that thoughts drift, people wonder. I've always been a curious person, that much is obvious.

I can understand how someone might fall under the spell of those eyes. There is just an intensity and depth there that makes you shiver and not want to look away. I imagine. The smile, too, that's something else. When Nick smiles, the world could stop. It's not one of those overly bright, fake Hollywood smiles either, it's warm. When Nick smiles at you, you get some of that warmth for yourself. It sort of radiates out, and heats everything it touches.

You have to admire his body too, I suppose. Clearly he works out, looks after himself, and when you do all that work it would be a crime not to show it off. He chooses clothes well, I always think, dark t-shirts that cling to every outline, the broad shoulders and trim waist, and I'm sure people don't mind that sometimes his jeans are a little bit too tight. In fact, he has this one particular pair that just cling to his ass like a second skin, and no one could be blamed for looking. They just draw the eye. Wanting to touch is a natural consequence, I'm sure. Especially when he gets close.

I've often considered it, this issue I have with personal space, and that on that score, Nick is my polar opposite. He likes to get close, too close. Likes to look over my shoulder while I'm processing, close enough so I can smell him. He smells pretty good, too, something warm and spicy and maybe...maybe I should ask him what kind of cologne he wears. Maybe.

He used to do it in the lab too, now I think about it, and he should be careful, because that combination of the tight jeans and the warmth and the smell and the accent, that could drive you crazy. People, I mean. People in the lab, with Nick standing behind them, they could be driven crazy. I feel bad for those people, and shake my head, ignoring the shiver I'm suppressing.

Because the thing about Nick is, despite all that, I cannot help thinking he's just a little too strait-laced. Maybe that's why he's single. He never seems to just let go, just do something spontaneous for the hell of it. The thought of Nick doing something spontaneous makes me smile in spite of myself, and feel a little warm. It is warm in here though, and dark. I can barely see Serena, just every half second or so as the lights flash in a regular rhythm.

I realize I have been staring at her, or rather through her, without really seeing, and I notice her mouth is moving. I have to lean across the table to hear her.

"So," she is saying, eyes sparkling. "I bet you make a lot of money doing what you do, huh?"

I frown and look at her once more; the nails, the hair, the clothes. She's smiling like a shark and I don't know how I didn't notice it before. Irritation flares, and before I can stop myself I'm answering her, calling her bluff.

"Actually, no. I barely scrape by. Let's just say the LVPD isn't the most generous employer." I lean closer to her and put on my best fake-sincere face. "In fact, I can hardly afford to eat most of the time."

Her face is a picture and for half a second I feel immensely gratified, but quickly I remember that this whole night is Catherine's fault. I don't really care if Serena likes me or not at this point, but I am definitely going to kill Catherine when I see her.

_Willows, you are on my hitlist_.

Poisoning, maybe, I muse as I finish the last of my warm beer in one gulp. Something slow. I cannot help but marvel at where she finds these people.

_...'Hey, Greg, why not go out with my friend Serena?'..._

Neglecting to mention that her friend Serena is interested in only one thing. Well, maybe two things, considering the way she was looking at me earlier, like she hadn't eaten in a week. I set my empty bottle down and take another look at her.

It's amazing how rapidly someone can go from full-on flirting to total disinterest. Serena has made the transition so effortlessly that I almost want to smile, but I don't. She has actually stopped talking now, and is just sitting there, looking at me with cool blue eyes and fiddling with her straw. Her nails are shiny and fake and look razor sharp, like they could do some damage; I bet she's a back scratcher too. I shudder a little bit at the thought and try to think of something to say, because one of us should.

It's fortunate that _he_ turns up, at that point, because all I can think of to say is '_what the hell am I doing here?_' and I really, really do not want to say that. I think Serena could have me, on balance, if she was angry. I've never been much of a fighter, and she's got weapons. Those nails, those stiletto heels, sharp little teeth. She looks like she might bite, and not in the good way.

My attention is diverted from how my date might choose to injure me, because this man is standing next to our table. I wonder how long he has been standing there, and also how long Serena has been staring up at him with the big puppy eyes she turned on me not so long ago.

"Marlon!" She's getting to her feet then, and turning herself away from me.

_Marlon?_ Jeez. And they are talking, animatedly, or rather she is, and he is watching her and nodding his big blond head and smiling this toothpaste ad smile like she is the most captivating thing he's ever seen. Something about being in town on business, something about can't believe you're here, something about making partner.

_...Oh yeah. I see you, Serena. I wonder if Marlon can see the dollar signs in your eyes, or if he's just too distracted by that admittedly great rack..._

She seems to have forgotten I'm even here, and I'm relieved. I will admit, my pride is the tiniest bit wounded at being abandoned so quickly for some lawyer/catalogue model type with a stupid name, but not enough to do anything about it.

She remembers, eventually, and pulls away from Marlon's embrace reluctantly. Regards me carefully, a somewhat sheepish expression distorting her perfect features. Leans forward to shout over the thumping bassline as a new song starts up.

"Greg," she enunciates, flicking blonde hair over her bare shoulders. "This is Marlon, he...um...Marlon, this is Greg.. He works for the Crime Lab."

Marlon is staring at me with mild irritation and a hint of a challenge in his eyes. Ok. I know an opportunity when I see one, and I also know when I'm not wanted. I stand, slowly, holding my hands out smiling nicely, hoping to convey surrender in a strong, manly way, of course.

All yours, alpha. _Please_.

When I make some excuse about having to work early in the morning, she makes no comment, just agrees and thanks me for dinner, says she'll call me. I told her I work nights, which just goes to show how much she was listening to me. By the time I'm twenty feet away from them, Marlon has taken my place at the table and she is leaning close, smiling, wanting him to look.

I turn away, and try to work out this feeling. It's not new, but it's confusing, and to not understand my own feelings is unnerving to say the least. I'm usually pretty self aware; I know a lot of people find me weird but I'm ok with that. The feeling is always hanging around me but sitting there tonight with Serena, even before she revealed herself to be Satan's gold-digging cousin, it was intensified. I don't know why I let Catherine set me up on dates because I can't seem to summon up a lot of enthusiasm for them. I try, but I always seem to be thinking of something else. I just can't seem to pay attention. Maybe I'm looking for something a little deeper after all, something I can actually feel. Maybe I sound like a girl inside my own head.

_Ok. Pull it together, Greg, for pity's sake_. I push fingers through my hair, even though I know I'm making it messier. This is not the place for introspection.

I'm about to leave, when something stops me. I recognize the song currently pulsing through the speakers, can feel it through the floor, vibrating all the way up to my thighs, and it makes me want to move. I used to dance alone all the time, I never used to care. Maybe I've become more self-conscious recently, and I don't know why. Maybe I'm getting old. I push that thought away as soon as it enters my head, because I am not old. I'm not. I'm not even thirty, not for a couple more weeks, anyway.

I'm standing at the edge of the dance floor now, leaning on the metal railing and looking out. It's packed out there, seems like everyone wants to be seen in what Serena tells me is 'the hottest new place in town'. It's called '_Escape'_, and though I'm firmly convinced that name is cheesy as hell, it makes sense too. I've always found my release in places like this, and I don't necessarily mean in a sexual way. There's just something about the darkness, and the heat, the anonymity. The way you can lose yourself in a crowd, a sea of people, moving like a tide, separately but together. You can be whoever you want in a place like this, just let go.

I haven't seen the inside of a club like this in months, though. Since I became a CSI, it's different. Maybe part of me thinks I should be acting more sensible now, but then again there's no law against having a good time. Actually, strike that, because I bet Grissom could show me some ancient statute that outlaws fun in the state of Nevada. I won't ask him.

As I stand there, I am starting to feel tempted to merge myself into that crowd, just me, because it's been too long, and the rhythm is coursing through me now, it's in my fingertips, tingling down the backs of my legs and humming in my chest. And I know this song, vaguely, and I like it. I hadn't even noticed it fading in, because this DJ is good, and it's seamless.

The harsh guitar riff kicks in hard and I feel myself smile, start to walk toward the short flight of stairs leading down to the dance floor, trailing one hand along the cool metal rail and muttering the words along with the song, I know most of them, which surprises me.

"_There's so many things I like about you, I just don't know where to begin..."_ I've got one foot on the bottom step and one on the impractically shiny tiles when I see it. And freeze. Because that sight is so unexpected, my brain needs a couple of extra seconds to makes sense of it.

The one person I never, ever, expected to see in a place like this. Nick Stokes. I find myself swallowing hard, and my throat is dry. I wonder how long it has been since I finished that last beer. Nick. And not only that, but Nick dancing. He has the hand of a small red-haired woman and is laughing and holding their joined hands up, allowing her to twirl gracefully away from him and back again. She is laughing, too, and they look cute together. Maybe I was wrong about Nick being single after all.

I'm only standing here, gripping the railings and watching the girl glance over at me and then stretch up on tiptoes to whisper in Nick's ear. I'm only standing here, and I have no idea why I can't move my feet. Why I have this rolling sensation in my stomach and this tight feeling inside my ribcage. Why I'm wondering if he likes that she has to stretch up like that to whisper to him. Or kiss him. Why I'm holding onto these rails like I want to crush them.

_Back off._

And I really don't know where that thought comes from but it echoes in my head so loud that it throws me off balance and I'm glad I have something to hold on to. _What the fuck_? And there's a hand on my back, insistent, and an 'excuse me' and of course, I'm blocking the stairs completely. I think that I mutter an apology as I let go the railing and move to one side to let people pass, but I can't be sure. I manage to tear my eyes from Nick and the redhead just for a moment to watch them thread past me and disappear into the crowd, and when I look back, I'm instantly confused.

She's gone. I'm looking around, but I can't see her, and yet. Nick. Nick is still there, only now he has this space around him. He's angled slightly away from me and anyway, it wouldn't matter because his eyes are closed. And he's moving. Fuck. Oh, fuck. And it's different now. That easy, casual playfulness when he was dancing with the redhead, that's gone, and there's something about the way he's moving now that turns my tongue a shade dryer and renders me unable to close my mouth.

I did not know Nick could dance. And yet, it seems as though he was born to do it, the movement is natural, fluid, and I suppose it's not dancing, really, not in the sense I understand it. He's barely moving his feet at all, just this slow, rhythmic sway, flow, roll, hips and shoulders and everything in between. It's as though someone has asked him to just close his eyes and _feel_ the music. I said he couldn't let go. I was wrong. There is not a single line on his normally tense face, just the tiniest hint of a smile. He's abandoned, and it's different. It's like Nick-_extra, _and I can't look away.

He looks good. Nick always looks good, though. He looks hot. And in the middle of all this, I'm still amused by the fact that he's wearing exactly the same clothes here as he wears for work. At least I made an effort for Serena, though I should not have bothered. These jeans are new, and I'm confident they hang on my ass in a rather flattering way. I've done something with my hair, and I'm not wearing this shirt because Catherine told me to, I'm wearing it because I might actually look halfway decent in it. In the right light. But Nick, well, I feel almost bad for the red-haired chick, wherever she is, because he hasn't even made an effort on his night off.

And yet...I'm still looking. The t-shirt is black, and fits to his body a little more than usual, probably because it's so hot. He's probably sweating under the lights, it's warm and I think I'm breathing a little harder than I was a minute ago. It's tucked in – which is just so Nick – and I want to slide my fingers inside his belt and yank it out for him. _What?_ Those are the jeans I was thinking about earlier, the ones that are just a little bit too tight. As he moves they tighten and stretch across his ass and I watch, fascinated, because...because I can't seem to swallow all of this saliva in my mouth.

I don't know what I'm doing, other than watching my co-worker dance, and with superhuman effort I'm pulling my eyes away and looking out onto the rest of the floor, trying to control my breathing. I swallow finally, awkwardly, and try to focus on something else but I feel as though my neck might snap with the effort of not looking at Nick, so finally I allow myself to look once more, and as I let my eyes sweep his swaying form the feeling almost knocks me over.

Heat, everywhere, and a twitch somewhere I was not expecting to feel one. And the knockout blow is the fully formed words that slam into my head.

_I think I want him. I think I want Nick Stokes._

And I'm moving, then, across the floor before I can stop myself, pushing past people, moving like I'm in a dream, because all I see is him, and I'm feeling logic slip away. Eyes fixed on his hips, twisting slowly one way, then the other, eyes still closed - he doesn't see me. All I can think is _hot. Fuck. Hot. Want. God_. He has my attention, every last bit of it.

My mouth is arid now, just inches behind him and suddenly I have no words, none at all. I can feel the familiar heat pouring off him and the urge to touch is mind-blowing, intense. I can't stop myself now, fingers moving to graze black cotton and it's damp, warm, I'm trailing fingers down his back and he shivers. He doesn't know it's me, of course, and the part of me still making some sense wonders if he will freak out when he turns around. I don't know if I want him to turn around or not.

But I'm not thinking really, my breath is short and everything is racing, pounding, feeling the music through the floor even more strongly here, shaking me. My fingers slipping down and I've never been happier to see him wearing these jeans. I want to grip that ass...make it mine.

Fuck. _Did I just think that_? Surely I didn't. But I'm touching anyway, and it feels even better than it looks under my fingers, stiff denim, firm flesh and the heat. And it's tightening and pushing back into my touch, and my god. I'm hard. I wonder if he is. And he's going to turn around...

He turns slowly, not losing the rhythm for a second, and his eyes are open now. And I can't breathe, because he's smiling like he knows it was me all along. And my god...his eyes are almost black and I can't look away. I'm not touching him any more but he must not have minded because he reaches for my hand, thumb brushing my palm lightly, sending a shiver to my already hard cock, which I cannot explain, because it's just my hand, and his hand, that's all. He hasn't looked away yet and when he rests his other hand on my hip I vaguely notice two things...that his hands are huge, the one gripping my hip and urging me to move feels thrillingly powerful and it encloses, compels me. I'm not wondering about those hands anywhere else. I'm not. The second thing I realize is that he is about to kiss me, and that I want him to. I want him to kiss me like I have never wanted anything before, it's primal, it's need.

"You were watching," he murmurs against my ear, and that breath is so hot, I'm melting from the inside out. He saw me.

"Sorry," is all I can manage, because a tongue shoots out to flick my earlobe, just for a second, and that's it. I'm gone. Liquefied. _Who is this man and what has he done with the Nick Stokes I thought was boring? _

"Don't be," he replies in a harsh whisper that sends a shudder through my whole body.

He steadies me with one strong hand still on my hip and then kisses me. I kiss him back, almost without hesitation. I don't have a choice. I've never been like this with anyone, but I feel out of control. I think I actually whimper into his mouth because it feels so good, and he slides his tongue against mine. And I know, from the way he's holding onto me and the way he is stroking the inside of my mouth whilst keeping our lips fused together, sliding, hard, that he has done this before, even if I haven't.

I didn't know I wanted it, and it should be weird, but it's not, because it's Nick. And Nick's hot. Nick's hot and he wants to kiss me; he is kissing me. He's also rock hard and I can feel him pushed against me, denim crushed against denim, and I want to touch. The idea of holding Nick's cock makes mine flood and jerk and push against the rough seam inside jeans that are too new. Friction. Good. But not the kind of friction my short-circuited brain is now demanding.

More Nick. More. All over. Now.

It's a good possibility I have never kissed anyone with this sort of desperation, I don't remember doing it but I now have hands on either side of his face, pulling him impossibly deeper into the kiss. I can't get enough. He tastes like beer and lemons and something warm. One hand sliding up into my hair, short nails dragging on my scalp and that feels weirdly good. Finally I remember the t-shirt and reach down to pull it out of his waistband, not stopping there, no control over my fingers as they release damp black cotton and touch his skin, hot sticky skin and the hard muscles of his back that I have seen before but never touched, and I press palms hard against them, wanting a reaction, which I get when he moans low in his throat and kisses me harder.

Thoughts are fractured now, but the fact that I'm kissing and groping Nick Stokes in the middle of a club has not escaped me. And I don't care. I really don't. From some recess floats Serena, maybe because our table was near the dance floor, and I wonder if she sees us. If she's enjoying the show. If Marlon feels smug.

...'Oh look, honey, he's _gay.'.._.

_Am I?_ I shut the little voice up, because if nothing else I am smart enough to know that this is good, it's very good, and the words can be sorted out at a later date, because right now I have Nick's hands gripping my ass and Nick's tongue stroking mine and this movement, this rhythm I didn't know he possessed. We are swaying, almost imperceptibly, to the beat and the friction between his groin and mine is unbearable. I don't know how much longer I can last, and I have not felt like that for years, so desperate for someone.

I don't realize how much I need to breathe until he pulls away, gasping, staring into my eyes, lust edged with amusement, and my earlier thoughts about oxygen levels echo in my head. I feel unsteady, but I think that's probably more to do with the way I'm being touched and the way I'm being looked at than o2 deprivation.

"Your friend is watching," he comments at last, and it's only because he's so close that I can hear a word of it.

"What about yours?" I haven't forgotten about the redhead, even if most of my mental functions are shutting down rapidly.

He smiles then, a real Nick smile, and I feel even more unsteady.

"Debra?" He's laughing softly and kissing my neck. The words are sighed against my ear and are suddenly louder than the music. "She's around here somewhere. She wanted to make sure you were watching me. I said you weren't, but I guess I was wrong, huh?"

I'm speechless, for once, and I just let him trail open kisses against my neck, leaning over so he can reach any bit of my skin he wants to. The song is fading now, and I only realize it is still playing because Nick is whispering along with it, hot against my ear.

"I like the way you like to touch. I like the way you stare so much..." Oh god.

We are only just moving now, everything crushed, sliding, grinding together, but it's perfect and I almost think that when the song ends, so will this. Not much time.

Because '_most of all,'_ I'm thinking as I push his t-shirt away, exposing his back, '_most of all_...'

I'm interrupted now both by the abrupt end of the song and the fact that Nick is pulling away from me. No. The look in his eyes is different and I can't identify it, but he's not moving now and he's barely touching me. I want to close my eyes as my stomach drops through the floor. All I can think is that I don't know what I did wrong. I'm breathing hard and my chest and eyes hurt, suddenly.

His eyes flick down briefly, between us, and when they meet mine again they are changed again.

"Not here."

"Oh."

And I'm being pulled across the floor by the hand, banging into people and stumbling but I don't care.

When I'm dragged into the men's bathroom, I want to laugh because it's cliched and it's tacky and nightclub bathrooms are invariably disgusting, but I don't. Maybe because when the door shuts, I am pushed up against the far wall with a force that shocks me, and I'm reminded not only how strong Nick is, but that he wants me so much he can't wait. He could overpower me, physically, in a second, and while I'm starting to like that idea more than I expected, perhaps I have some power over him too. He's breathless, pushed against me and pinning my wrists to the cold tiles. His hair is messy and falling into his eyes at one side, skin flushed and eyes glazed.

Anyone could come in here. It's dangerous, and yet I don't want to move, and anyway I don't think I could. He has a pretty good hold on me. I move my fingers experimentally, testing it out, and his eyes flash. He shifts his hips against me, making me moan and lose all semblance of propriety. Because that's his cock, pushing against mine, and...fuck.

"Want you."

"I know." There's that smile again and for some reason I want him to understand.

"No, but..."

"I know, Greg." He moves again, a slow, aching, clockwise rotation that makes me gasp.

"I didn't...I didn't...god...know until...oh...just now."

Nick nods slowly and drops his eyes, just for a second, to my mouth. I don't know why, but that simple action makes me throat tighten and I shift and grind back against him; seeing that the eyes that are raised back to mine are lust-glazed, unfocused. For me. This cannot be real.

"I was hoping you'd figure it out eventually," he adds, that accent richer than usual, like...coffee. Like really, really good coffee. I need to speak before I lose my grip completely here, before there is no blood left in my head; at the moment it is all draining somewhere else, somewhere I need to be touched. I don't trust myself to form a coherent sentence. Just the important words.

"Nick. Now. Touch me. Right now."

"What?"

And he's playing with me, I know he is, looking at me with eyebrows raised, head slightly on one side. Eyes intense, burning, dark. I'm exposed and he's looking at my mouth again, long glances before looking back at me. I know my mouth is open, I'm struggling to breathe.

"What do you want, Greg?"

And I never knew he'd be such a fucking tease either. My god. "Touch me." That was clear enough.

"Where? Here?" He pinches a nipple through my shirt and though it feels unexpectedly good, it's not what I need. I shake my head.

"Here?" A fraction lower.

"No." I know he can hear the frustration in my voice and he is loving it.

"Here?" Oh, so close. He's stroking my belly now and his thumb is about an inch from the tip of my cock and I need it so much. I squirm and think about grabbing his hand with the one of mine that is now free but he's playing a game and I fucking love it. I hate it. And love it.

"Here?" He licks his lips and it's the last thing I see before my eyes close because his palm is covering and pressing my aching cock; the wave that rushes through me drags a hiss from the back of my throat that I feel, and it's all I can do not to come right there and then. I don't want to be so obvious but it feels too good, and I'm pushing away from the wall and arching into him, into his touch.

"Yes. God. Yes."

When his lips drop to mine again I kiss him hungrily, trying to distract myself from the strong, sure hand moving slowly up and down my length because I cannot come from being rubbed through my clothes, that would be humiliating and I want more than that before this is over.

I don't know what I'm saying any more but abruptly the kiss is ended and I cannot help my eyes flying open.

Nick is on his knees and he is not teasing me any more. He unzips my jeans efficiently and frees me from what are now slightly damp boxer briefs. When that hand wraps around my cock I think I might explode. The pressure is what I have needed for too long, the friction of slightly rough palm against the sensitive, heated skin as he moves it, not releasing his grip. I'm staring uselessly at him, not even trying to close my mouth now, not care how open I look, because he is looking me right in the eyes and leaning closer, taking me in his mouth.

And I can't help it, I can't control the sounds coming out of my mouth that any other time would make me cringe. I can't stop myself jerking and flinching off the wall, pushing into his hot mouth. Knowing I'm not going to last long and wanting, needing, this moist hot pressure around as much of me as possible.

If he minds he doesn't show it, because he's sighing with contentment and closing the circle of his lips around me, following my movements with his hand and letting me push into his mouth. The slightest scrape of teeth against the sensitive spot just below the head and his tongue rotating, stroking somewhere, I've lost what he's doing because I can only concentrate on how fucking fantastic it feels, and that Nick is very, very good at this.

My hands are sweat slick and sliding against the tiles behind me, just wanting to be closer, more, because I'm so close, I have been on the edge of it since we got in here. I know it is just a few more seconds, a few more thrusts and that mouth sucking my cock is melting my entire body. I tangle a hand in his hair, letting go of the wall because it doesn't matter any more, I'm losing it and he senses it, speeding up and tightening his grip, taking me further into his mouth and not moving as the heat rips through me, uncurling from the base of my spine and making me cry out, something that sounds like his name echoing out around the room as I spill into his mouth.

He does not move away. Just looks back up at me and swallows, licks me clean and lets go, resting his head against my hip for a moment. I do not let go of his hair, just stand there, head spinning and the usual soft warm glow settling in around me, seeming inappropriate here in this bathroom. I'm also breathing hard and concentrating on trying to look a little bit cool and not sliding down the tiles into a heap on the floor. Not just because the floor is disgusting.

When he stands up, slowly, and adjusts my clothing, zipping me up again, I do not expect him to kiss me, but he does. I have tasted my own come before, out of curiosity, but here, mixed with Nick and licked from the inside of his mouth, it is different, and it thrills me. I am conscious, as my heart rate returns to normal, that I have not even touched him, and I start to say so, but he silences me with his lips. Tells me, between kisses, that he's fine, and anyway, there isn't time. We have been in here for long enough without interruption, it's too much of a risk to start anything else. I'm surprised by how disappointed I actually am, and how that disappointment intensifies when he finally stops kissing me and pulls back a few inches.

"Leaving?"

"Yeah. I need to go home, crash out."

Rubs the back of his neck and glances at the floor. Suddenly looks like the Nick I know a little more. Warm, sensitive, less predatory. This is the Nick that smiles at me in the break room and stands too close to me in the lab. The one that brings me coffee and lets me play my CDs in his car.

"I thought you were boring," I say softly before I can stop myself. It's not my fault, what he just did with his mouth seems to have loosened my tongue.

He looks a little hurt but then he laughs. "And now?"

"Now...I..." I shrug and smile and touch his hair tentatively. Suddenly unsure of myself again, because, sure, this is Nick, but after what just happened I'm not even sure which way is up any more. "You're...hot."

And that may be the most inarticulate thing I have ever said, but he doesn't seem to mind. He smiles again and traces his fingers so carefully over my lips. No one has ever touched me like that before and I cannot move, in case he stops.

Of course, he does stop after a few seconds, drops the hand to his side and turns away. He opens the bathroom door, flooding the echoey space with sound again. It sounds harsh to my ears now and I think I may need to lie down. With Nick. But I didn't think that, either, and I am certainly not going to ask him to stay with me.

"I'm going home," he repeats, and I nod dumbly, wondering what happens now. And suddenly I hate that he can make me feel so vulnerable. I'm not fragile, needy, I'm not. But I feel it, as I lean back against the cold tiles and fiddle with the hand dryer on the wall next to me, for something to do. _Now what?_

And I don't realize I'm scowling at the floor until he's next to me again, the door flapping on its hinges as he comes back into the bathroom and tells me to stop it. I'm looking into those deep eyes then and trying to figure him out.

"You're cute when you're puzzled," he smiles, bringing hands up to my face. Kissing me once, softly, making me shiver. "I meant for you to come with me."

"To sleep?" Oh, yeah. _Very smooth, Greggo_. I hear myself ask it, and I know I'm going red.

"If you like."

He is pulling me away from the wall by the hand now. "We can talk in the morning."

Out of the bathroom, threading through the club, and I'm watching him, the way he strides ahead, strong legs, so upright. He's not dancing now, but every step falls in time to the rhythm of the music. I let my eyes be dragged up and down his body, shameless, fingers curling around his and not letting go.

Somewhere in the crowd I catch sight of a familiar flash of pink satin and blonde hair, and I turn my head slightly to give Serena the warmest, most genuine smile I have given her since I laid eyes on her. The expression on her face as I turn away again is worth every second I had to spend with her, and silently I cross Catherine off my list again.

I don't recognize the song playing now, and though I think once again that maybe it's because I'm getting too old for this, it doesn't seem to matter any more. Nick doesn't look back at me but his thumb rubs the inside of my wrist as we near the exit. He trails and twists and weaves through people, never faltering, never hesitating. I smile. Follow.

FIN

_Most of all...yeah...most of all...I like the way you move._


	4. Dreamscape

**Real/ize part 4** - _Dreamscape _- By Sara's Girl

AN – So I'm breaking the rules already. This whole thing was inspired by the title – '_A Momentary Lapse of Reason' _by Pink Floyd. However lyrics are from _'Dreamscape'_ by Dry Kill Logic, which I can actually see Greg listening to.

This fic contains beautiful dark-haired lab rat Greg and as such is set in Season 2. This is in Greg's POV, 2nd person (do not be afraid of the second person!)

Life officially sucks this week. Reviews delight and inspire. Thank you.

XXXXX

_Buried inside my brain lie many complications_

It wasn't ever _supposed_ to be Nick Stokes. That's the thing. You know it, and yet the knowledge does not help you one bit. It does not wipe away these feelings that knock you sideways on an almost daily basis. Your mother used to talk about love when you were growing up, emphasizing the importance of it, you suspect, in order to get you to keep it in your pants as long as you could, without her actually having to say the words.

You didn't have any particular expectations about love in the beginning. When you arrived at the Las Vegas crime lab, you were satisfied with the number of notches on your metaphorical bedpost, a few girls, a couple of guys, mostly in college. You had liked, you had been fond, you had desired and been desired with equal fervour, but you figured love would come later.

You imagined that somewhere down the line, it would all fall into place. You would meet some girl and just know, like your mom said you would, and then it would go from there. Simple. That was the plan; that had always been the plan.

Of course, now you know better than that, don't you? You try to recall that quote about the best laid plans of mice and men...and then you realize with mounting horror that you have been spending too much time with Grissom. However impressive the man might be, you don't actually want to turn into him. The point is, whatever your plans regarding love might have been, only one of the points actually holds true today – that you just _know_. Even if he doesn't, and you hate when your mom is right. You feel silently, secretly, from a distance, but you know you love him.

At age twenty-six, the owner of a truly individual haircut, a killer smile and not much else, you may be the DNA god, but your notions of love have been well and truly sideswiped.

It wasn't supposed to be a co-worker, it wasn't supposed to be a guy and it certainly wasn't supposed to be a guy like Nick Stokes.

Nick Stokes is one of those people who are almost perfect in every way, one of those guys who almost have a sort of glow around them...of not only perfection but purity of spirit, always doing the goddamn right thing. He's one of those people that, when they make a mistake, it's beautiful. It's a wonderful opportunity for growth, for discovering something new, and nothing really bad can happen, because after all, it's _Nick._

Not like when you make a mistake – which you admit, is rare, but it does happen occasionally, if you haven't had enough sleep or enough caffeine, or your mind is on 'other things' (even though it's more like _'the other thing'_ than any old other things. The delicious-smelling, Texan other thing). It happens sometimes, and the results are wrong, or the test is compromised, and it's not a nice, positive learning experience, it's a huge fucking disaster. It's a black spot on your day that spreads and catches and encompasses everything it touches.

Because you know that they expect you to get it right all the time, and you hate the look in their eyes when they're disappointed – especially Grissom, though Sara has a nice line in:

_...'Oh, Greggo,'...shaking her head... 'I really needed a result here.'..._

No, it's not just that, though. It's that _you_ can't stand it, more than anything. You think they would be surprised, shocked even, to know how much pressure you put yourself under. You want to be the best there is at what you do. You live for the nights when the pace of work leaves you dizzy and you barely have time to take a breath. Exhilaration is your drug of choice, that and caffeine. Strike that; exhilaration, caffeine and Nick. But you work damn hard and you take immense pride in what you do. Just sometimes, you'd like the rest of them to see that too.

And you know what they all think. That because you smile and joke and fool around with pens and loud music and showgirl headdresses, that you don't take it seriously, but you do. All that's just a way to pass the time, to maintain your sanity during long, quiet shifts, to distract yourself from the sometimes chest-compressing boredom of sitting for hour after hour in a cold glass box surrounded by chemicals and blinking lights. And maybe, sometimes, because you want to be seen. Noticed. What's wrong with that? When Sara first arrived you hoped it might be her that noticed you. You know you tried too hard with her, but it seemed, in that moment, _vital_ to get her attention.

But it wasn't Sara's attention you really wanted. No. You quickly realized that. That, you suppose, was the first mistake. The first of many, each error setting off the next, widening and spreading out around you like ripples on a pond.

And there is no room for error, you won't allow it. No room for a slip in judgement. You wonder, sometimes, if that's what he is. You think Pink Floyd put it best – no surprises there – _a momentary lapse of reason._ You like the sound of that, because it sounds reassuringly temporary, as though normal service will resume shortly. It sounds like a little hiccup, a minor disturbance.

As though loving Nick is some fleeting affliction. You have no idea why you even bother telling yourself that, because you know that's so far from the truth that it's almost painful. Denial is not a healthy course of action. Most of the time it is not the route you take, in your own head at least. On a good day, you can look at yourself in the mirror and accept that you love him. It isn't that you mind loving him, because most of the time it's a warm, tingling, heart-skipping feeling and it takes your breath away that just looking at someone through the glass walls of your lab can heat your face, that a casual brush of fingers as you hand over a printout can make your usually-steady hands tremble. On a good day, it thrills you that after two years, his smile can flood your entire day with light.

On a bad day, you glower at your reflection above the sinks in the men's washroom and you hate your feelings. You stare back at yourself with sharp brown eyes, sighing heavily. Rake tense fingers through artfully-messed dark hair and wonder about changing it again. Whether it would make any difference to Nick if you had different hair, or different clothes. A different face. A different personality. On bad days, you know that Nick Stokes will never love Greg Sanders, and that you are truly a hopeless case. The face that stares back at you tells you, coldly, silently, how pathetic you are, and that all the things you do, all the things that you have been doing for the last two years, are pointless.

You hate that you try to impress him. You don't mean to do it, but you can't seem to stop the words coming out of your mouth. The tilt of your head and your smile as you convey some snippet of information that you know is going to make his case. Like it's nothing, even though mostly you've thought really hard about it. And that, you think, is the scariest thing. Because while you're idling on your swivel chair waiting for the beep of the GCMS, you're thinking about the mountain shadow effect, or liquid dish-soap, or something else you can use to impress him. Help him, but mostly impress him.

You do it because you want to see that smile, want to feel the warmth of the hand on your shoulder that goes with the smile. You hate that you want it, but you do want it. You never needed to impress anyone before, at least not since you were a kid, and you feel like you're in the fourth grade, climbing onto the roof of the gym to make Lucy Sorvino like you. That didn't work either, now you think about it, you ended up with a broken wrist and Lucy Sorvino told you that you were dumb.

You sometimes suspect, even with twenty years' distance and a Stanford education, that Lucy Sorvino was right. That, despite everything, you truly are stupid. Because despite your outward brash confidence, there is a part of you that is waiting for someone to stride into your lab and grab you by the collar, unceremoniously dump you out into the parking lot and slam the door shut in your face.

_Did you really think you were fooling anyone, Sanders? What did you think you were doing, trying to run a DNA lab? Please._

Try as you might, you can never quite shake the thought that that person is watching, waiting to expose you as some kind of fraud. You hate that you act like you just don't care.

You hate that secretly, you care so damn much. About your job, about what people think of you, but especially about him. When he hurts, you hurt. You've never been like that with anyone. When you heard some psycho had thrown him through a second floor window, you actually threw up. You waited until you had locked yourself in a bathroom stall and made sure there was no one else around, but you felt like hearing it poisoned your blood, and you wanted rid of everything. Felt like that until you actually saw him, watched Catherine and Sara touch him and fuss around him while you watched from an appropriate distance and then made some lame joke that made him smile but ripped you inside.

When you found out about Nigel fucking Crane and the gun and the psychic you almost lost it. Almost, but not quite, because despite your numerous flaws, you are strong, and you knew that letting go of your sanity and showing him how much you cared would not help him.  


You don't know what it feels like to find out you are the centre of someone's world, but you do know that Nick is an emotional person, he really feels things. You think it would get to him, even though he doesn't share your feelings. It's quite a responsibility, you suppose.

It's like white noise, crackling static, harsh, deafening, when you see him. All you hear is him, the only thing audible above the jagged roar in your head. That voice. ..._Hey, Greggo..._ and you smile, and you wish you wouldn't.

That voice slides like honey, the clear kind that you can wrap around one of those little round slatted wooden things, to catch and hold the sticky, clear liquid. You never saw the point of those, because all the honey gets stuck and trapped inside the gaps...you'd rather use a knife and get it all over your fingers. It can always be licked off, and that's a visual you probably didn't need in the middle of a shift.

Nick Stokes, covered, sticky-sweet-messy. And licking. All over, until he's clean and damp and desperate for you.

It's your own fault if you get a hard-on in the lab, because you can't help yourself, using some cliched analogy in your own twisted head. You love analogies, metaphors, almost as much as you love DNA. The thing about DNA is, it's black and white. Breathtakingly simple and dizzyingly complex all at once. DNA is truth. Metaphors are a way for you to make the simplest thing a little more complicated. Your favourite ones are all about Nick. About how beautiful he is.

And that, _that_ was a revelation all on its own. One that deserves its own chapter in your imaginary book...provisionally titled: _'In Which Greg. H. Sanders Loses His Mind'._ The finding him attractive thing. The finding him dangerously, heart-racingly, stomach-clenchingly attractive. Looking at Nick is a head-rush. It's a pulse-jump. A deep chest ache. A cock twitch, flood, press.

A delicious/horrifying skin tingle.

You suspect it's not entirely within the bounds of proper grammar to simply slash two contrasting words when you can't think of the word you want, or the word you want doesn't exist, but dammit, it's your head and you can do what you want. The slash is a useful thing, you always think; it conveys the sharpness, the harsh contrast and the closeness that is inherent in not having a space between those two starkly different meanings.

Pleasure slash pain. Filthy slash gorgeous. Love slash hate. Greg slash Nick.

You like the edge of violence to it too, as though the little symbol, just that stark, oblique line, might tear skin and draw blood. Because that's how it feels sometimes. Violent. You are violently drawn, eyes caught, and you look because you have no choice.

Sometimes, you are profusely grateful to whoever designed the lab as a series of glass boxes. You like to look. Like to just let your eyes be dragged up and down his strong, toned body; the curve of his back, the broad slope of his shoulders, the delicious curve of his ass in faded denim.

Those are the obvious things, of course. And you love Nick's obvious beauty as much as the next man...or woman. But what really gets you are the things that most people probably do not notice.

His hands. Nick has big, strong hands. When you think about those hands, your mouth goes a little dry and you try not to think about how they would feel pressed against your heated skin, grasping your hips or threading firmly into your hair. The skin is surprisingly soft, you know that from the times he has touched you, intentionally and unintentionally. You love to watch the movement of his fingers as he works, as he passes you bags of evidence or slides them, palms down, fingers splayed, across your glass worktop as he speaks to you. Sometimes you wonder what he would think if he knew that such a simple action drives you crazy.

You wonder if people ever notice his eyes. Maybe not, when there is so much else to be distracted by on that face. The strong line of his jaw, the straight nose, the dark, sweeping eyebrows. And when he stands next to Warrick, you concede, no one's going to be looking at Nick's eyes. But you notice them, and they do not need to jump out of his face like Warrick's do. In fact, you think maybe it is that you like about them. Nick's eyes are warm. You are consistently amazed that so much sincerity can be conveyed in a single glance. When those eyes fix on you – just for a moment – you feel like the only person in existence.

Just for a moment.

Even on the worst days, on the darkest, longest, bleakest shifts, you are heartened by the way your world can be flooded with light when you share a moment. Just a brief exchange of glances or a conversation unrelated to work, and you almost can't stand the way you smile when it happens - the connection - because you know it gives you away. Not that he's looking for it but you still despise feeling so vulnerable. Your smile lays you open and he could just reach over and dash you to pieces. Either that or he could just reach over and take what is his. You know you're deluded, but if you could wake up with Nick every day, surrounded by that light and warmth, you do not think you would need to feel afraid of anything.

You pretend you're invincible, but you think that being loved by Nick would make you for-real invincible. Maybe that's what real love feels like. Protection, security, comfort. Doubt and fear washed away. When you think back, you decide that the first day you woke up aching for it like something was missing was the first time you realized you were in love, and it hit you like an armoured car doing ninety.

It isn't that you ever thought you were completely straight, you have experimented enough and you're well known for your open-mindedness in most areas of life, but still. You had expected the real thing, for want of a better – less corny – phrase, to be a woman. It had never occurred to you to think any different. Once you got over your initial surprise, it ceased to matter to you what equipment Nick had. You like what he has, very much. Ever the scientist, though, you cannot help but play a statistical game in your head and you know that it does rather complicate things.

The only hard evidence you have about Nick's preferences is the night he spent with that hooker. Yes, the one he didn't murder, but definitely did sleep with. You spent an unseemly amount of time staring down the microscope at Nick's semen, trying not to think about what his face looked like before he shot it, and what tricks-of-the-trade she used to get him off. That was a very bad day.

An isolated incident and a vague ladies-man reputation does not a straight man make, however, and you can attest to that better than anyone. You are a terminal flirt, and you made your peace with that fact a long time ago. As for Nick, sometimes you want to know, sometimes you don't. As far as you can see it, sexuality is fluid, it's dynamic, not a series of static boxes. If something is right, then it's right.

No, that's never been the thing for you and Nick. The problem with you and Nick is that Nick is perfect and you are...you. He's one of life's good guys, the man with everything, and you are painfully aware that beyond the occasional laugh and regular DNA results, you have zero to offer him.

To your chagrin, that is the thought that is circling around your exhausted slash caffeine-wired mind as you shuffle around the lab during the characteristic early morning lull, tidying away errant magazines, returning CDs to their correct cases and wiping down your work surfaces with the static-free cloth you hide in a drawer. You'd like to say you're thinking of Nick because you have results for him, but in reality you're just thinking of him because when there are no distractions, your thoughts naturally and inevitably gravitate Stokes-ward.

You're sweeping tiny particles of dust into the curve of your cloth and preparing to flick them to the floor when the door of the lab swings open. Absorbed in your task, you do not look up immediately or even register the presence of another in your space until you see the fingers pressing against the glass only inches away from yours. Hands stilled, you look up slowly. Thoughts like treacle, you are still able to register the point that had those fingers belonged to anyone else, you would be chewing them out right now for smudging the surface you just wiped.

As you try to look enquiringly rather than staring hungrily, the thought occurs to you that he has no good reason to be in here. You have no results for him to collect, he has nothing with him for you to test, and he has not brought you coffee. Not that you are complaining about the unexpected bonus gift of an entirely random Nick Stokes in your lab, but you cannot help but feel slightly unnerved. Curling nervous fingers around your slightly damp cloth, you swallow hard and fight down the temptation to be rude or sarcastic just so that he doesn't see how much his presence knocks you off balance. He speaks first, to your relief and surprise.

"I want to show you something."

You're staring, mouth slightly open at the unexpected words and the warm smile with which they are delivered. The tone is almost flirtatious and it is certainly an invitation, but you know better than to hope. That said, anything Nick wants to show you has got to be worth a look, so you nod mutely, shove your cloth back into the drawer and emerge from behind the counter. He's already halfway through the door when you remind your feet to move. Follow him, hands stuffed messily in lab coat pockets, unsure, down the corridor and out of the building.

It is a strange thought to get your head around, but you are starting to wonder if it is Nick that is having the momentary lapse of reason, because he's stopping around the far side of the lab building and leaning against the wall at no point in particular, looking carefully at you until you stop too. It's 5.30am and the sun is coming up. It's beautiful. He's beautiful. You try not to stare but it's an intoxicating combination. Nick slash sunrise.

His mouth is moving but you aren't sure what he's saying, for once the static drowns everything out including his voice and you're confused...all you feel is warmth and a shiver...which makes no sense...reason has escaped you, again. You wonder whether if you kissed him quickly enough he might not notice you did it, because time seems slowed down, you could be in and out and standing there again like nothing happened. Not that it would happen that way. Even if you could slow down time, because one kiss would never be enough. You haven't kissed him, but you know that's true.  


"Greg, are you listening to me?"

You lift your gaze from his mouth to his eyes. Locking light brown against dark. Someone said your eyes were like chocolate, once. You think it's the cheap, sugary, milky kind, the kind that coats a thirty cent candy bar, the kind you bite through with a dull thud, smearing thick, melted sweetness across your lips.

His eyes are the colour of dark, bitter chocolate, the expensive kind that snaps when you break it, the kind that takes forever to dissolve on your tongue, but when it does it makes your head spin. You pause, wondering why so many of your Nick-related analogies are to do with food. And what Freud would have to say about that.

"Oral fixation," you mumble through dry lips. Still staring into those eyes. Eyes that flash at your words.

"What about it, Greg?"

His voice is low, teasing, and something low down inside you snaps at the sound. You suppress a moan because the smile that follows is incredible. It's small, lop-sided, and easy slash challenging. You wonder how obvious it is that you're biting the inside of your lower lip to stop yourself leaning in and kissing the crinkle at the corner of that smile.

Releasing your own slick, heated flesh from between your teeth you answer the question. Even though you have this strange, swooping feeling that it isn't really what he's asking you.

"Oral fixation...um...Freud thought that it indicated that a person spent too long in the oral phase of development. When the whole world revolved around sucking. Nipples, chiefly. Breasts," you clarify, and part of you wonders why you are still talking, and that if you are sure of nothing else, you can be sure that Nick did not ask for a pop psychology lesson.

Not that it stops you, it never does. Talking is better than staring. Only, you're staring _and_ talking. Which somehow, you think is fractionally better than just staring. Nick's eyes are warm on yours and you choose to ignore the bittersweet ache that curves around your spine as a result.

"He thought that as adults, the oral fixation manifests itself in a desire to...put things in one's mouth, basically."

You aren't sure who this 'one' person is but you suddenly seem incapable of using the words 'I' or 'you'. A deep, shuddering breath. "Anything, really. Pens, cigarettes, fingers, candy, some people bite their nails..." you trail off, watching those eyes flick down to your hands. Curling your ragged nails protectively against your palms, digging them in, you continue.

"Some people chew their hair or snap gum, suck mints, or...parts of other people – " your eyes widening as you hear the words fall out of your mouth.

As if you meant them to. And you think that actually, you _did_ mean to say them. In that moment, when reason floated away on the wind because Nick's eyes were on yours and the sky was orange and nothing seemed real. You want to close your eyes and hope that when you open them, you'll be back in the DNA lab, alone. No Nick, no sunrise, no judgement vacation and definitely no conversation about sucking.

But you keep still and hold the eye contact, steady, even though you're almost trembling with the effort of doing so. Because, reason or no reason, you're not going to show him that he intimidates you.

"I know what an oral fixation is, G." He laughs softly and your stomach flips, making you cross defensive arms across your chest as if he can somehow see the effect he has on your insides. "It was interesting hearing your..ah..take on it, though."

You have the very real feeling he's making fun of you, and normally you like being teased and prodded and joked with, but not today. Usually, you revel in the moments Nick chooses to linger a couple of minutes extra in your lab and wind you up about something, your hair, your clothes, your reading material, it doesn't matter really, you just like those glittering moments in your day when you feel connected.

But now, in this unfamiliar context, the same teasing makes you feel uncomfortable. You want Nick to talk to you about fibres or alleles or blood or semen or – ok, maybe not semen, but at least that would be familiar. Scowling slightly, you pull your lab coat tighter around you and re-cross your arms. Look out at the rainbow sherbet colours of the sunrise instead of the teasing cocoa-dark eyes of your co-worker. Safer that way, not to say something you might regret or do something you would definitely regret.

Neither of you say anything for a long time. Nick leans back against the wall next to you, close but not touching. Your eyes remain stubbornly fixed on the sky, watching pink chase orange over the horizon. Slowing your breathing down to long, deep pulls of surprisingly fresh early morning air, trying to filter out the ocean-spray smell drifting from Nick's skin and clothing. The one that is catching in your nostrils and forcing your heart to beat a little bit harder against the scant protection of ribs, skin, print shirt, lab coat and folded arms.

He shifts slightly, the rasp of denim on rough, cool, concrete making you wrap your fingers around your upper arms a shade tighter.

Nick speaks then, a light questioning tone in his voice, and you jump, because if he said what you think he just said, you might have to crawl out of your own skin right there. People like Nick Stokes do not say 'kiss me' to pale, hyperactive, lab rats like you. Tension wraps a tight band around your chest as you choke out "What?"

"Kissing," Nick reiterates, drawing out the word. The image of shiny, clear honey dribbling from fingertips to lips creeps, unbidden, into your head and you can barely resist the very real desire to drag your tongue across your own lips, taste buds stinging at the anticipation of sweetness. You force yourself to focus on the word. Kissing, in itself, is innocuous. Even though it sounds vaguely obscene to hear Nick saying it.

It is just a verb, not an imperative. Not a command. You want to feel relieved, or should that be disappointed? And yet, for some reason, you feel neither.

"I wonder what Freud had to say about kissing."

The accent you love is intensified in what sounds like deep thought, and you cannot help but look, resting your head back against the wall and turning it so that your cheek is brushing textured concrete. He's smiling again, but not looking at you, and you take the opportunity to study the familiar profile. He's all angular jaw and warm dark eyes and softly curved lips. Not for the first time, you want to trace fingers along the junction of jaw and neck, the sides of his face, to slide into short dark hair that is almost long enough at the front to twist around your fingers. You have never allowed yourself to comment on his hair, terrified that a word from you might make him cut it all off like he did once before. You have no idea why it's so important, but it is.

When his eyes slide to yours, the crackle of electricity that sparks stuns you and you realize that not only were you staring, but he knows you were staring. You hope your muttered curses are better-hidden than the hot flush of red that is creeping up your neck, spreading out from under your collar. You hate it, because it's only him that makes you feel this way. Like a glance can burn you, and a touch can set your whole skin ablaze.

_...I wonder what Freud had to say about kissing..._

Plenty, you think, but nothing you are prepared to go into here and now. You wonder suddenly how long you have been standing here, because it could be a minute and it could be an hour, you have no idea. You think maybe Nick is the one messing with time, not you. Why, you don't know. You push down the thought that he might know, might see through you, because that thought makes bitter bile rise in the back of your throat, makes it hard to breathe. Hard to breathe when you feel so exposed you might as well be standing out here wearing your lab coat and nothing else.

Out of nowhere, you remember that Nick brought you out here to show you something but you don't know what. You've seen the sunrise before. Seen Vegas at 5.30am more times than you care to think about. You don't care any more, because you don't feel safe out here any more, and you want the glass walls of your lab, the comforting bleep of familiar equipment and a space that is yours. Your music, your coffee, your swivel chair with the wonky wheel.

"Freud said a lot of things, Nick," you reply with more confidence than you feel, pushing off the wall without uncrossing your arms. "I have a book I can lend you if you're that interested. I'm going inside."

You aren't sure if you make it one step or two before you're pulled back, but it's done with such force that all you really register is your back hitting the wall and your rather undignified cry of protest. The hands resting gently but firmly on your shoulders as Nick now stands facing you, pinning you against the wall. You realize you could probably push him away if you wanted to, he isn't holding you that hard, but you don't want to. Even though the predominant emotion flooding your bloodstream like a drug is pure fear. Because those eyes are inches from yours and they are different. Pupils glossy black and huge, nudging dark chocolate out to form a thin ring around them. He's not blinking and the rest of his face is expressionless, as though the effort of trying to communicate his every thought to you through his eyes leaves nothing for any other feature.

Wavering on a gossamer-thin line between _'he's going to kiss me senseless'_ and _'he's going to kick the crap out of me'_, you barely breathe now, indecision speeding the heart but incapacitating the lungs. Lust slash rage, you think, though you have no idea what he could be angry about.

"Um."

The sound is weak and pointless but you make it anyway, daring him to break this tension, somehow. Anyhow, actually. A punch in the stomach might bring about the return of reason, logic, you never know.

"Greg," he whispers. Eyes never leaving yours and you know. He knows. Oh god. _Kiss me._

And he's letting go of your shoulders, brushing, trailing maddeningly light fingertips up your neck, both hands, almost circling your throat but you know he would never, instead glancing over the pulse point that leaps to his touch. You watch him smile and forget to stifle your moan as he pushes his fingers into your hair and catches his breath.

"Greg," he repeats, and you do not think anyone has made your name sound so urgent before. He twists newly dark hair around those skilled fingers and you are not even trying to pretend you haven't thought about him doing that more times than you care to admit. "I like your hair like this," he adds, unexpectedly, and his sincere, thoughtful tone makes you want to laugh.

Slightly fortified by the touch and air of uncertainty, you allow your eyes to flash and your lips to draw into a mock pout. "You didn't like it before?"

"Sure I did." He is so very close now, and this is beyond surreal. Raising his eyebrows a fraction, he brushes thumbs across your cheeks and entangles his fingers more firmly, holding you in position. Not that you would move now, not for anything.

"I'm trying to give you a compliment, Greggo."

His lips are about two inches from yours now and he's smiling, though he looks as though he's trying not to. His lips are twitching upwards and as you stand there, caught, his hands on your face, you feel the corners of your mouth pulling to follow his, as though out of your control. A compliment. About your hair. You don't know whether to laugh or dissolve into a pool on the ground and in that moment you have no idea which is worse.

"Sorry," you offer, murmuring through the grin that shows all your teeth. "Thank you."

Not moving, just staring, you don't even want to blink in case you miss a second of what might just be a moment. You feel like it could be whipped away from you at any time, that you could close your eyes and open them to find yourself leaning against the wall with nothing but the breeze on your skin and cool concrete under your fingers. If and when Nick comes to his senses and lets go of you, you want to be ready for it. As you'll ever be.

You know, though, that now you've had this much, nothing will ever be the same. If it stops now, it will be too late because you are changed already. Chemically, irreversibly, altered.

A sharp inhalation coincides with his ragged outward breath and his air is in your mouth, warm on your lips. Fading your smile. Your mouth falls open slightly. So goddamn close. All you can feel is your breathing, his, synchronised now, his thumbs stroking down your face so slowly, heart pounding so hard you think it might stop.

Anticipation is a powerful thing, you decide, but there is only so much you can take.

"Are you going to kiss me?"

The words come out louder and with more of an edge than you planned, and you swallow hard, knowing you sound angry but it's too late now and if that scares him away then it would only be a matter or time anyway.

"Are you going to let go of the wall?" he shoots back.

"Huh?"

You move your fingers instinctively and feel them scrape across the hard, sandpaper-rough surface at your back. You weren't even aware that you had your palms pressed flat to the wall the whole time. Tentatively, you peel them away and wrap them around Nick's upper arms. Smooth, warm skin, hard muscles that move under your fingers as he does. Feeling exactly like you knew they would. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, liquid.

"Do you want me to kiss you?"

You think maybe that is the point at which you officially lose your mind, because never in any single one of your fantasies does Nick Stokes ask if you want him to kiss you. And it's hot. It's...considerate. He's checking if you want it too, and god, he's crazy because you know how obvious you are. You're wide open, certain he can see through to your soul and all it's imperfections.

And in that instant, so is he. Beautiful, yes. Warm. Flawed.

He's just as scared of this as you are. _Fuck_. You've never loved him more.

"Yes." And your arms are around his neck. You're dragging his breath deeply into your mouth. This is yours too, you've waited long enough and you're damned if you're just going to stand there and let it happen. "I want you to. I really fucking want you to."

You move. He moves. Reason is lost, maybe forever, as lips meet and you both groan at the connection. Eyes closing, you're just feeling it, staying almost completely still for a moment, relishing the connection made real, before you instinctively open your mouth against his, fitting open lips together, moving slowly, tongues touching and sending sparks showering under your skin.

You always imagined Nick would be in control, super cool, but he's the one murmuring _'oh, god'_ under his breath. And your confidence is kicked up a notch with each heated whimper against your lips. Not that you can hold back your own small sounds of surprise and satisfaction, you wouldn't even try, and you are holding on, arms looped around his neck, as tight as you can to stop yourself from falling off the edge of the world, or so it feels like.

The Vegas morning and the noise of the road running by the lab fades away as you lose yourself in a kiss that starts out slow and soft. So slow and soft that it tingles and twinges and aches and shivers. Agonising slash divine. Nick's hands carefully but firmly angling your head to deepen the kiss

It is fast becoming heated, messy, a bit more desperate, and you're pulling him hard against you. His hands are on your hips and they feel better there than you ever imagined they could, firm, demanding, possessive. You want to tell him you're his, that you have been for a long time now, but you feel like you might die without his mouth on yours. So you push back against him, pressing into his hardness and his heat and kissing him the way you've thought about every day for two years.

Reason is long, long gone. You think maybe you never had it, when it came to Nick.

The world is swirling, rolling, burning, and you think you might fall down. Will he hold you up? The noise is deafening once more, and you just want it to be silent. Still. When you break apart, thoroughly kissed, licked, bitten, breathless and saliva-slick, you stare. You realize you can hear again.

He runs his hands down your arms, squeezing gently, not looking away from you.

"Do you see what I wanted to show you?"

"Maybe," you reply, still feeling uncertain, and you hate it.

Nick sighs. Grips you tighter almost like he's going to shake you. You're not quite sure how you would feel about that.

"You don't have to try and impress me. You impress me plenty."

Despite the relief fish-leaping in your stomach, your face and tone are stubbornly closed. "No, I don't. I'd say I'm more irritating than impressive. You don't have to lie to me."

"Can you be quiet for one minute?" Nick shakes his head and presses a finger to your lips. You stare at him and use every ounce of your self control not to pull the finger into your mouth because you can taste salt/sweet against your lips and it wouldn't be your fault, you have an oral fixation, after all.

"Just listen. I love...how you change your hairstyle every five minutes. I love your horrible music. I love that you're arrogant as anything but you still don't know how clever you are. I love your coffee. I love your ugly-ass shirts."

"Hey!" The finger grazes your tongue lightly as you yelp in protest. You curse yourself for reacting to that one thing amongst everything else you can't quite believe he's saying, but you just don't disrespect a man's shirts, even if you are Nick Stokes.

"I love that I had a whole thing prepared to say to you and you made me forget the whole thing by talking about fucking _Freud._"

You laugh at the genuine disbelief in his voice and slide your fingers into his belt loops.

"I love that you can completely disarm me with a smile. I love your eyes. I hate that it's taken me so long to learn to read them. I love that I got there."

Breathing hard, you realize you never want him to stop talking, or looking at you just like that. You think this might be the longest time you have ever not talked, because the words just won't come out, the ones you have in your head all the time. _Love you. Love you, Nick._

The sun is almost completely up over the horizon as he pulls you close again and kisses you, not seeming to need to hear those words in this moment. Maybe he knows that you want to say them, so much.

"I love Greg Sanders," he whispers, between kisses, and you're gone. The soft light is on your face and his lips feel like they are everywhere. Softer again, as though by brushing lips and tracing tongues you can have a conversation without words. You don't hear the words but you feel them.

_I've wanted this..._

I know. I'm sorry.

Here now.

Yes, here now.

Hope slash terror. Doubt slash certainty. Peace slash standing-on-the-fucking-edge-and-looking-down.

And you _know_.

You think, perhaps, as you walk back into the lab, that everyone else knows too. Your legs feel like rubber and you aren't entirely sure how they are holding you upright, never mind allowing you to walk.

He is two or three steps behind you as you walk past reception. You think you hear him laugh softly as Judy raises her eyebrows at you and you flush and shove your hands in your labcoat pockets. You know that your hair is all over the place – more so than usual – and you feel dazed so you probably look it. And you don't care. Contentment hums in your veins like warm wine.

Tranquility, serenity, calm. When you return to your lab you sink down into the swivel chair and spin slowly, thinking as you rotate. Thoughts that are slower and smoother than usual.

Euphoria slash disbelief.

Reason was always there. You never lost it. You just had to learn to understand it.

You shake out a fresh pair of gloves and snap them on, feeling the latex pull and catch at your skin. Smile, involuntarily. You don't have to look at the smeared mirror in the washroom to know that your smile is dazzling. The one that is being reflected back to you from the doorway is telling enough.

The warmth that envelops you is briefly disorienting, but from it you find a new rhythm of breaths that feels slow, secure and calming. He looks lit up from the inside and though you are baffled at how you can do that, you know those eyes would not lie to you.

"It _was_ supposed to be you, wasn't it?"

Nick's smile widens and he walks into the lab, taking you by surprise. You thought he was about to leave. Instead he perches, somewhat awkwardly, on your spare stool and rests his elbows on his knees.

"Tell me," he says.

XXXXX

_Buried inside my brain lie many complications  
I am exploring a world of illusion  
Mind deteriorates_

_Momentary lapse of reason._

_Quest for tranquillity._


End file.
